Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  At five o’clock, Ali woke Crossman and asked him to take over the sentry duty. The Turk had hoped to get through the night but found himself so exhausted he could not prevent himself from dropping off. Crossman wrenched himself from a deep and ragged sleep to a muzzy awareness. He nodded in answer to Ali’s question and got up slowly to splash water on his face. After about thirty minutes he managed to shed the desire to lay down his head again. There he sat, blanket around his shoulders and musket in his lap, until seven o’clock. He woke the lieutenant at this point, hoping to get himself at least another hour in bed.

  ‘What is it?’ muttered Pirce-Smith, irritably. ‘I was sleeping.’

  ‘I know, sir. We forgot to post a sentry last night.’

  Instantly the officer was sitting up and rubbing his face. He looked at Crossman in alarm. ‘You mean I forgot.’

  ‘No, we all forgot. All except Yusuf Ali. He stayed up half the night and then handed over to me, but I’m afraid I can’t keep my eyes open any longer. I woke you because I do not want to usurp your command. I felt it better to inform you of the situation, then let you decide who to wake, if anyone. I must lay my head down.’

  ‘Yes, of course you must, Private Crossman. You must be exhausted. Go to it. I’ll sort it out now.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘No – thank you.’

  Crossman knew no more until he was being roughly woken himself by a delighted Wynter.

  ‘Come on! The officer wants us. Told me to get you up.’

  ‘Did you kick me then?’ growled Crossman.

  ‘Eh? I – it was an accident.’

  ‘The next time you kick me I’ll break your leg.’

  Wynter scowled. ‘Don’t you threaten me. Anyways, the officer wants us. He’s up there.’

  Crossman took out an old fob watch he kept in his pocket. It told him the time was now ten a.m. Above him the lieutenant was holding a council of war. He joined the other men who were eating and drinking at the same time as listening.

  ‘We will go, three of us to each side of the gorge,’ Pirce-Smith was saying. ‘Crossman, Peterson and Yusuf Ali on this side – Wynter, myself and Gwilliams on the other. When the column comes through you will open fire only on my signal. Now, the signal,’ he looked about him. ‘Who amongst my team can give a shrill whistle?’

  ‘Me sir,’ said Wynter, pursing his lips for a demonstration. Ali immediately clamped his hand over the soldier’s mouth.

  ‘Not now, you idiot,’ snarled Pirce-Smith. They might be in earshot. ‘When I tell you.’ He turned back to Crossman and the others. ‘When you hear Wynter’s whistle, you will open fire. Every shot must hit a man, you understand? Once the ambush has begun, Yusuf Ali will go to a high point. He will take this bugle,’ Pirce-Smith produced the instrument with a great flourish, ‘and use it as if rallying a whole company. He will then let off two or three gunpowder charges, to simulate the sound of guns being used and to send rockfalls down on to the heads of the enemy. This will add confusion to their ranks. They will think we have many more men up here, plus cannon, and they will panic and hopefully run. Peterson, it will be your job to kill the horses drawing the wagon, or wagons. Now don’t give me that look – if you can kill a man, you can kill a horse.’

  ‘So that’s what was in the big pack,’ said Wynter, rubbing the strap marks on his shoulders. ‘We puzzled on it.’

  ‘Now you know. Bugle and gunpowder. There you have it.’

  Crossman thought the plan a little too elaborate, but then he was not in charge. It had a certain amount of audacity, which he appreciated. And he was aware that they were high up, out of reach of cavalry. Any men that were sent after them would have to climb a precipitous cliff, exposed to fire the whole journey, and then pull themselves over the top. Without a great number of men it would be suicide. The Russian officers were quite capable of sending their men on suicidal attacks, but Crossman felt that the strong possibility of failure in this case would be enough to deter them.

  He knew Pirce-Smith’s eyes were on him at that moment, trying to gauge his reaction without having to ask for it. Crossman tried to look as if he approved, which he did, in principle. However, it was impossible for the lieutenant to openly ask his opinion, so nothing was actually said.

  After that they split into their two separate groups. Pirce-Smith, Gwilliams and Wynter made the hazardous climb down the cliff, then up the other side, while Ali kept watch for the enemy column. Once they were in position on the far side a handkerchief was fluttered. They settled down into natural sangars, to await the first sign of the Russians. Peterson was saying to him, ‘I hope there’s silver or gold. You remember we got that prize money waiting for us? What we took from another Russian column? I’m going to spend that, when I get home. I’m going to buy a carpenter’s shop and depend on my own living!’

  ‘Good for you, Peterson, but let’s get the war over with first.’

  Crossman’s money would not be waiting for him. He had spent his at the card table with Campbell. Illegally of course. Any prize money earned by the peloton was being withheld until the war was over. Any man who deserted would lose his prize. Any man who thought he was rich enough to refuse duty would have it confiscated. It was that simple. Only those who did their duty, who survived the war and were discharged honourably from the army, would be permitted to collect.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Crossman asked the woman soldier. ‘You look a little better than yesterday.’

  ‘Sore,’ she muttered, ‘and a bit feverish, sergeant. But I prefer you don’t say anything to the lieutenant.’

  There was no time to answer her, for at that moment sounds were heard coming from the end of the gorge. At first it was the snuffling of horses, and grinding of cart wheels on the stony ground. Then the muffled low tones of speech. Ali tapped Crossman’s arm and pointed. A supply column was coming into view, moving slowly into the hazy distant end of the gorge. It was led by a troop of cavalry: dragoons with rifles slung over their right shoulders. Crossman was delighted to see that the rifles were encased in waterproof covers. Clearly the Russians were not expecting an ambush or those weapons would have shed their coats. However, just as Crossman was feeling pleased with the situation, he realized that the dragoons kept coming, and coming, and coming. There were many more of them than a few supply wagons justified.

  Then the wagons themselves appeared, mostly arabas drawn by oxen, with Tartars at the reins. There were some lighter carts, but these were pulled by horses and driven by Russian soldiers in uniform. These were full of infantry who, Crossman noted with chagrin, had muskets which were not encased in waterproof covers. The wagon train itself was much longer, much larger than expected. It stretched back a long way and was followed again by a sizeable body of dragoons.

  ‘Too many,’ muttered Ali.

  Crossman whispered, ‘You’re right, Ali, far too many. We can never take this number.’

  The jangle and jingle of horse metal got closer and closer. Soon they were gazing down on Russian helmets and caps. Crossman looked anxiously across the divide, at his commanding officer’s position on the far side. No shrill whistle was forthcoming from the lips of Wynter. Surely there would be none? It was suicide to attack such a huge force of heavily armed soldiers with just six men. Pirce-Smith, eager as he was to make his mark, would not force this issue.

  Ali, who had been ready to dash up the mountain with the bugle and set off the gunpowder charges, now relaxed. Clearly, he believed the lieutenant would abort the mission. Peterson, however, looked agitated. She kept staring across the gorge, her face screwed into a waspish expression. She kept adjusting her position in a jerky, unpredictable fashion, as if irritated by the lack of action from her superiors.

  ‘Calm down, Peterson,’ whispered Crossman, ‘I don’t think anything is going to happen.’

  She shot him a nasty look and replied in a loud voice, ‘Don’t tell me to calm down. I’m the senior rank here. It’s me who’s lance-corpor
al, not you.’

  Crossman stared down at the troops below, but fortunately the noise of the column was great enough to drown Peterson’s voice. None of them appeared to have heard her. He then turned back to her, seeing a dangerous look in her eyes. Something had turned in her head. She did not look rational. She was again looking over at her commanding officer’s position. ‘What is he waiting for?’ she hissed. ‘They’ll be gone through before we get chance to hit them.’

  There was no whistle forthcoming from the other side. It was clear now that Pirce-Smith intended to let the Russians go. Crossman was relieved, but there was still the problem of Peterson. He was several yards from her. Ali was closer. He caught the Turk’s eyes and motioned with his head towards the woman soldier. Ali nodded. He too was a few yards from her but he was closer than Crossman. He started towards her, crawling on all fours, like a spider going at its prey.

  Too late. Peterson’s shot rang out and a dragoon officer was flung from his horse by the impact of the ball as it struck his head.

  ‘Dirty bastards,’ she shrieked, reloading even as she was berating those she saw as responsible for her condition. ‘I’ll show you.’

  For a short moment there was no reaction from the Russians below. They appeared shocked and stunned. Then shots came from Pirce-Smith’s side of the gorge. Clearly there was nothing for it now but to kill as many of those below as they could. Ali rushed up the hill. The sound of the bugle came a minute later, just as the Russians were gathering themselves and returning fire. Already eight or nine of their number lay dead or wounded in the dust. Others sought cover but there was little to be had on the floor of the gully. Explosions came from above, which precipitated landslips, sending tons of rock cascading down upon the dragoons and infantrymen below. Horses were whinnying and fighting for space. Some of the wagons continued to rumble on, towards the other end of the gorge. Others, those containing men, remained.

  Peterson shot first one driver, then another fifteen seconds later, as if only now that she had created havoc remembering what her orders had been. The sporadic enfilading fire was having its effect on those below. Russian were going down one after another. For a minute or two, as Crossman fired, reloaded, fired again, he had the feeling that they might bluff the Russians into a retreat. Certainly one or two of them were panicking, riders forcing their horses between wagon and boulder, in order to gallop their mounts out of range of the deadly accurate fire.

  But the superior numbers of the Russians soon changed the tide of the battle. A blistering return fire from the infantry, who had turned over one or two wagons to use as protection, smashed into the rocks as a storm of iron. And once the dragoons had unsheathed their rifles, they too added to the black blizzard of musket balls flying up at the ambushers. Soon the attackers were unable to lift their heads for fear of having them shot off. The air was full of whining, whispering bullets.

  Russians began to scale the escarpments on either side of the gorge. It was time for the peloton to vacate their position and make their escape.

  Peterson began to crawl away from her position. Crossman followed. Ali was waiting for them a little further up the slope. Fortunately there was an overhang which protected the three soldiers from the worst of the counter-attack. They were able to scramble away along a goat track and into the uplands beyond the narrow gorge. There was little point in waiting for the others, on the far side of the gully. Speed was essential if they were to escape death or capture. Finally, when they were out of sight and range of the Russians, they began to run, leaping over boulders, fallen trees, and away into the hinterland.

  Peterson soon had to be half-dragged, half-assisted to keep up with the two men. Her breath was laboured and she was sobbing, though Crossman felt it was with rage rather than sorrow. When the three finally halted and had gathered breath, some distance from the gorge, he turned on her and cried, ‘What the hell were you doing?’

  She looked sullen. ‘We were supposed to ambush them.’

  ‘You were supposed to wait for the lieutenant’s signal.’

  ‘I thought I heard Wynter’s whistle,’ she said, her sour expression changing to a canny look. ‘I’m sure I did.’

  ‘You are liar, Peterson,’ growled Ali. ‘There was no whistle. What, you think we are deaf? There was no signal. You break orders. They flog you for this.’

  ‘If it wasn’t a whistle, then it was a cart wheel squeaking. I heard something, that’s why I fired. Why do you think I fired?’

  ‘You fired,’ Crossman said, ‘because you didn’t want the operation aborted. You wanted to kill Russians. I was there, Peterson. So was Ali. We know what you were doing. It does you no credit.’

  ‘Credit,’ she spat at him, her face twisting and growing dark with hate. ‘What credit was it to them who made me dirty? They did things to me, sergeant, and now they’ve left me with something vile in my body. Something they put there. A horrible disease. They put it there. I’ll kill as many of them as I can, whenever I see them. I’m telling you, sergeant, you musn’t trust me anymore. I’ll blow holes in them until there’s none of them left. They fouled me up. Well, I’ll foul them up now. I’ll shoot them down like curs until there’s no more left to shoot.’

  ‘I understand how you feel, and you’re not wrong to feel it, but you can’t endanger the rest of us with your vendetta. A soldier obeys orders, Peterson, because there’re other lives at stake besides his own. When we get back you will report to a surgeon. If it means you will be thrown out of the army, so be it. If you won’t go, I shall drag you there myself.’ He placed a hand on her shoulder and his voice grew quieter and more gentle. ‘You’re a very brave woman. I am proud to have known you. But you have become unpredictable and dangerous to the rest of the peloton. I have to do this thing, even though I regard you as one of the best soldiers I have ever been fortunate to command.’

  She looked up with a miserable expression.

  ‘Am I still your friend, sergeant? Even though I’ve done wrong?’

  He knelt down and gripped her by the shoulders.

  ‘Ever and always, Peterson.’

  ‘Mine too,’ said Ali, gruffly. ‘Always I am jealous of your shooting, but I put this aside to say I am your very good friend, like the sergeant.’

  She began weeping openly now.

  ‘I hope the others make it back all right,’ she said.

  ‘They’ll be fine,’ replied Crossman, but not at all convinced by his own words. ‘They’re soldiers. They’re 88th. They’ll make it.’

  9

  Crossman, Ali and Peterson made it back to British lines. Later the other three came in, looking harrowed and weary from running. All them, against the odds, had made it back alive. Ali immediately went off on a borrowed mule, to retrieve the body of Yorwarth. Peterson, wishing to pre-empt the trouble that was about to descend upon her head, went off to find a surgeon or physician. Before she left, Crossman said to her, ‘It would be advisable to be seen by someone sympathetic. There was a Dr Barry I met several months ago, who seemed a gentle sort of man . . .’

  There were some roughly built stables used as a small hospital for the walking wounded in the north of Kadikoi. Peterson walked over hard rutted ground to this establishment and entered timidly. It was stifling inside. There were one or two sick soldiers, stripped to the waist, sitting or lying on beds. Impassive and vacant they did not look at her. The light was poor, the stables having only small slits like arrowloops for windows. Within, it smelled of sweat, festering wounds and other stale unpleasant odours. Panic rose in Peterson’s breast. She did not like new situations. Especially situations in which she was about to feel the wrath of the army descending on her head. She was also fearful of deadly diseases like typhus or cholera, so she kept her distance from the apathetic men on the beds.

  She waited in trepidation for several minutes, until finally a woman entered the room. Many of the regiment wives helped with the sick and wounded and Peterson assumed this person was one of those. She as
ked the woman if there was a Dr Barry there, or where he could be found. The woman said she knew of no Dr Barry, ‘. . . but Assistant-Surgeon Lawson is in the next room.’

  Peterson walked to the door of the room and looked in, to see a medical officer writing in a notebook. His head came up.

  ‘What is it?’ he asked. ‘You’re using my light. Come in, come in. Step aside from the doorway.’

  Peterson entered the dim room and did a little nervous skip to the right.

  ‘Sorry to be of a bother, sir, when you’re so busy,’ Peterson said, ‘but I was – was sent to see if Dr Barry was anywhere to be found.’

  ‘Here? I think not. Dr Barry has visited the Crimea, but he is far too important to remain in this God-forsaken corner . . .’ The surgeon stared at Peterson keenly. ‘Just what is it you want, soldier? Are you ill? You look somewhat shaken about. Have you a fever?’

  ‘I – yes, sir. I think – I think I’ve got some sort of – pox.’

  ‘Pox?’ The surgeon stared at her. ‘You mean a venereal disease? You have a discharge?’

  ‘A – a what, sir?’

  Lawson gave a sigh and put down his pen. ‘Are you leaking fluids, man? Or do you have sores?’