Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘I know you particularly wanted that bridge destroyed.’

  Lovelace shrugged. ‘One can’t have all that one wants. So, what about these medals? Do you want a formal presentation, on parade and all that, or shall I dump them on your bed tonight? You can have them either way. We’re pretty much a law unto ourselves at the moment, Colonel Hawke and I.’

  ‘Bring them to me, if you please, Nathan. No parades.’

  ‘Very well. By the way, do you know who has also been highly decorated? Do you remember that little Russian girl, Dasha Aleksandrovna, at the Battle of the Alma? You will recall that she sold her possessions to buy a horse and cart, so that she could help the Russian wounded on the field. The Czar has given her a gold cross and a pension. Well deserved, I think. Eleven years of age and doing all that! If I had a daughter . . .’

  While Lovelace was still in conversation with Crossman, Lieutenant Pirce-Smith arrived. Crossman watched him approach the bed, wondering how his promotion would affect the other man. Would he be galled that a private had been raised to his own level, just like that? But Crossman had no need to worry. Pirce-Smith seemed very pleased for him. He had brought Crossman Dalton-James’s sword, which he unsheathed and lay across the bed to be admired by his former sergeant.

  ‘Give me your hand, sir,’ said the lieutenant, solemnly, ‘for we are now brothers of the blade.’

  ‘I like the sound of that,’ replied Crossman, reaching out with his right hand to shake that of Pirce-Smith. ‘“Brothers of the blade.” It has a nice ring. I shall wear the sword proudly and use it wisely.’

  10

  The American and the Anglo-Scot were in an orchard which was used by patients of the French hospital. He had contradictory feelings about the way he looked now, in his new finery, the uniform of the dead Dalton-James. On the one hand he felt quite grand, and on the other, a hypocrite. He had never expected to become a commissioned officer and had spent a great deal of his time despising them for popinjays and peacocks. Now he was one and he secretly rather liked it. In the way that Wynter had had a reversal of opinion on sergeants, he had done the same with officers. They had both been elevated to those positions which they had previously held in contempt. It was really rather bad of them now to parade themselves with the same aplomb as someone in carnival dress looking for compliments.

  Crossman was staring at a newspaper article which Rupert Jarrard had passed to him as he sat convalescing in the late summer sun.

  ‘I am listed among the dead,’ said Crossman in dismay, ‘and on top of that, they’ve spelt my name wrongly.’

  ‘I thought it would please you,’ Jarrard said, smugly, puffing on a cigar. ‘A British paper of course. We wouldn’t make that kind of mistake in New York.’

  ‘Oh, no, of course you wouldn’t. We all know how superior the Americans are, in all things.’ Crossman put the paper down on his knees. ‘Well, Rupert, it took you a time to come and see me.’

  ‘Oh, hey!’ cried the correspondent, ‘Lovelace only just saw fit to inform me. I thought you were dead too. I even said a little prayer. As soon as I heard you were in here, I came running.’

  ‘It was my fault, actually. I asked Lovelace to keep it a secret. I didn’t want a horde of females descending on me, fussing over me. It is bad enough with that youth, Pierre. He will not let me do a thing for myself, and he should, for I shall forget how to lift a cup if I’m fussed over like this much longer.’ Crossman’s stump was strapped against his side, to prevent him from knocking it and opening the wound. He felt awkward, not really knowing what to do with the thing. It seemed to take over his whole attention. He must have been looking at it, for Jarrard said, ‘Is it still raw?’

  ‘Oh, this?’ he replied, pretending to notice it for the first time. ‘Not really. Well, yes, it’s as sore as hell, if you wish to know. I have to rub some more cream on it soon. The French surgeons did a marvellous job though. I am convinced the saws they use are superior to those employed by the British surgeons. Smaller teeth, I think, and sharper.’

  ‘Did they keep your hand for you?’

  ‘No, it was tossed on a pile of limbs in a waste bin. I suppose I could have sorted through them, later, but by that time they’d gone green.’

  ‘There’s no need for sarcasm. I know several fellahs who’ve been lopped like you and some of them went to great lengths to retrieve their lost branches. One of them put his leg in a glass case and gave it to his old university to put on display. Another had his buried in the grave he himself would occupy once the curtain came down. A third . . .’

  ‘Please, Rupert . . .’

  ‘No, no, this is the best – the third suggested his amputated hand be used in a parody of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, as the pound of flesh required by Shylock. Curiously, you see, a hand with a bit of wrist does weigh just about a pound.’

  ‘How very interesting,’ remarked Crossman, dryly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must write to my mother to tell her I am not dead, but famously alive.’

  ‘Hey, I only just got here!’

  ‘Oh, all right. Did you remember to bring my chibouque? I’m feeling bereft without it. Ah, yes, you did,’ he said, as Jarrard took the pipe from the bag he was carrying. ‘And do you know if anyone found my Tranter after the battle? My revolver?’

  ‘You think it would be handed over?’ snorted the American.

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  Crossman took some tobacco out of his right pocket, held the chibouque by the bowl with his knees, and proceeded to stuff it with tobacco. It was awkwardly done, but Jarrard did not move to help him. He knew his friend would have to begin to learn such tricks in order to survive. But, as he had said, he had known many amputees and they functioned as well as men with their full complement of limbs after a while. A match came out then and was eventually struck and the pipe lit. It was all rather laborious, but Crossman glowed with a sense of achievement when it was done.

  ‘I knew a one-handed man who could load and fire a weapon quicker than he had done with both mitts,’ confided Jarrard. ‘He told me he had been all fingers and thumbs before he had been pollarded.’

  ‘That sounds like a story, but thank you for it, Rupert. Ah, that’s better. Nothing like tobacco to mellow a man’s spirit. God knew what he was doing, giving us these golden leaves to sooth our troubled souls. Well, today I go to see Jane. Wish me luck, won’t you? I intend asking for her for her— That is, I intend to marry her, if she’ll have me.’

  ‘Why won’t she? A handsome fellah like you. Straight as a pole, still got your own hair, and dashing to boot. A uniform like that makes ’em go all wobbly at the knees. By God, sir, you look the bee’s knees in that lootenant’s uniform. I try to shine, with my sharp suits and all, but when you’ve got those golden spiders on your shoulders, a man can’t compete.’

  ‘You really think she will have me?’ asked Crossman, anxiously.

  ‘You know darned well she will.’

  There fell between them one of those golden silences that drop naturally between two men who are comfortable in one another’s company. They puffed away, staring at the leaves being lifted by the breezes. It was a charming day, not warm enough to sit without a coat, but certainly not chilly. Birds darted about in the bushes and trees. Small mammals scurried from here to there. Bees were murmuring and butterflies fluttering. Wild flowers and herbs gave forth their fragrance. A poet like Tennyson would have gone into one of his reveries and come out of it with a masterpiece of euphonic verse.

  ‘What will you do now, Rupert?’ said Crossman, once the fuel in his pipe bowl had burned to ashes. He tapped it out on his chair leg. ‘Now that the war is over?’

  ‘Find another war, I guess. There’s always something going on somewhere in the globe.’

  ‘You don’t think you might end up back home in America? I hear there are rumblings between the industrialized north and the agricultural south.’

  Jarrard tossed away his cigar butt and shook his head.
<
br />   ‘Americans will never fight each other. Hell, when we gave you fellahs a drubbing it was much like a civil war, many of us fighting our own relations. We’ll go to war to keep our independence, but I can’t see us killing our own brothers and cousins in our own streets.’

  ‘When you put it like that, perhaps not. Well, I hope we cross each other’s paths again, Rupert. I shall miss your company.’

  ‘And I yours, old friend. Hell, Jack, you’ll be in the thick of another fight soon, and I’ll be there to write it all down for posterity.’

  Crossman laughed. ‘Or for the next day, at least.’

  ‘Yeah, the fickle readership of newspapers.’

  Later that same day, a clean-shaven Crossman was riding a borrowed horse into Kadikoi. He dismounted and tethered the nag to a rail, before walking off towards Mrs Durham’s place. On his way he saw a group of about two dozen 88th rangers marching towards him. A sergeant was keeping them in step with gruff timing and reminders that they were in the British army, and not a bunch of Hottentots from the middle of the continent of Darkest Africa. As Crossman passed them, the sergeant ordered a salute, which was carried out remarkably smartly for men who were obviously fatigued with working in Balaclava Harbour. Then suddenly the sergeant halted the men, as he and the officer recognized one another.

  ‘Sergeant Harry Wynter, as I live and breathe,’ said Lieutenant Jack Crossman. ‘What a coincidence.’

  Wynter looked about him as if tricked or thwarted by the Fates. ‘You?’ he said. ‘I mean, it’s you, sir. I thought you was still a private, damn it. I was goin’ to come looking for you, once my duties allowed, to order you about a bit, just for fun, like. But I missed my chance, I see. You’re an lieutenant. I hadn’t heard. That’s rich. That’s very rich.’

  ‘Richer than you think. This is Dalton-James’s uniform.’

  Wynter laughed out loud.

  Crossman nodded towards the waiting soldiers. ‘So, you’ve reached the dizzy heights of sergeant.’

  Wynter nodded. ‘I never realized what a job it was, to knock such turnip heads into shape. This lot?’ he gave a snort of contempt. ‘They don’t know nothin’. Wet behind the ears, they are. You try to make decent soldiers of ’em and they resist. BAKER!’ he yelled, loud and sharply enough to split a melon into two halves, ‘DON’T LET ME CATCH YOU MOVIN’ WHEN I AN’T PUT YOU AT EASE.’

  ‘Yes, I see what you mean, Sergeant Wynter. That one twitched without warning, didn’t he? Well,’ Crossman stuck out his hand, ‘I wish you all the best of luck, Wynter. I hear you did a courageous thing, saving the life of an officer.’

  Wynter shook the proffered hand.

  ‘I’d do the same for you, if you was to lose . . .’ Wynter stared at the loose end of the left sleeve of Crossman’s coat and suddenly became embarrassed. ‘Thing is, sir,’ his voice grew noticeably quieter, ‘I did it without much thought, if you know what I mean. The officer had his limb shot away and the Ruskies moved in to stick him with their bayonets. I rushed up without thinkin’, stuck a couple of them instead. Then I hoisted up the captain and carried him off. Yes, I threw meself into the teeth of the gale, but once out I was golden, see. I could carry this officer off the field and not have to fight in the rest of the battle. All the others I left behind, they went down. One or two got back, like you, with bits missing. I got a bash on the head and bled a good bit, but that was all.’

  ‘You don’t have to feel guilty, Wynter. You fought for me many times. Once, I believe, you saved my life.’

  ‘When you was in Sebastopol,’ said Wynter, his face brightening again. ‘Yep, that were it. We had a time, didn’t we, sir? We had a war all right. Now Peterson’s gone home and there’s no one else left. Now I have to bawl and shout at turnip heads all day long. It’s not the same.’

  ‘Good luck, Wynter.’

  ‘And to you, sir.’ Remarkably there were tears in Wynter’s eyes. The reason was apparent on Wynter’s breath.

  ‘Have you been drinking, sergeant? You seem a little emotional.’

  ‘Oh, just a tipple,’ replied Wynter, smirking. ‘Just a little warmer after our work unloading the ships. You know how it is. Goodbye, sir.’

  With that the new sergeant marched smartly back to his men and asked them in a voice that would have silenced Jove what the blamed hell they were looking at and to keep their eyes to the front or he would have them plucked out and thrown to the crows for horses’ doovers. Crossman watched them march out of sight, wondering about the vagaries of war.

  The door to the dwelling was thrown open before he even had time to knock. Obviously Jane had been watching from the window. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him several times. Except that it was not Jane. It was Lavinia Durham and Crossman drew back in alarm, hoping no one had seen this unwanted display of affection.

  ‘Lavinia, please! My new uniform!’

  ‘We are so happy that you are safe,’ she cried. ‘Jane, Jane, here is Alex, that is to say, Jack. He is come home to us.’

  Jane came up, almost shyly, behind her friend.

  ‘So I see. Do stop fondling him like a spaniel, Lavinia, and let him come in. He looks a little bothered by your fuss. Hello, Jack.’

  He stepped inside and removed his cap. ‘Jack is it? I seemed to have scored a success at last.’

  ‘I have taken to heart that you wish to be known by your army name. From now on, you will be Jack Crossman. I have taken the liberty of writing to your brother and parents to tell them just that. Alexander Kirk has been consigned to the attic, perhaps to be brought down and the dust blown off him at a later date. Jack Crossman is now a lieutenant, nominally of the 88th Foot, but actually on secret government business.’ Her eyes were sparkling until she looked down and saw his empty sleeve, then they faded. ‘Oh, Jack. Your hand. Does it hurt very much?’

  He joked, ‘I don’t know, for wherever it is, any pain it feels never actually reaches me.’

  Lavinia stared open-mouthed before saying, ‘How will you manage without it? You’ll need a good woman to look after you. I have to look after Bertie, so that only leaves Jane, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Lavinia, you have lost all decorum,’ said Jane. ‘Leave Jack alone. Come over here and sit down, lieutenant. Let us look at you. Doesn’t he look fine, Lavinia?’

  The other lady remarked, ‘He must have been melted down and poured into that uniform. I wonder you can even bend, Jack, without the sound of ripping cloth?’

  ‘Dalton-James was slightly smaller than I am.’

  Captain Durham then walked into the room. Crossman stood up, his cap under his arm left arm, and gave the captain a slight bow. ‘Your servant, Durham.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ cried Durham, moving forward with hand outstretched. ‘You’re here at last. The ladies have been going frantic for the past two hours. I’m so glad – they’ve been driving me mad. Anyone would have thought General Simpson was expected. Congratulations, old chap. Lieutenant, eh?’ Durham nodded approvingly as Crossman shook his hand. ‘More in keeping with your station, I have to say. A baronet’s son? I should think so.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Are we still on for that shooting week, old chap? Looking forward to it enormously, you know.’

  ‘Bertie!’ snapped Lavinia.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Crossman, smiling. ‘I’ll speak to my father as soon as I get home. I’m on a ship leaving in two days. The Waylander. A small tub I understand, but I’m happy with anything.’

  ‘Gad, but you look fit enough now. We was worried about you, weren’t we, Lavinia? First reports said you was dead and Jane went into transports of grief. Buckets of tears. Couldn’t stand it. Had to get out of the house. But then Lovelace came and told us you was alive, though a bit knocked about. The smiles came back and the house was sunny again. And here you are, looking as sharp and lean as a gypsy’s lurcher on a frosty morning. I say, who’s your tailor?’

  ‘Borrowed uniform, I’m afraid, but I see by the label it was made by Joseph Rosenberg, of
Savile Row.’

  ‘Rosenberg, eh? I’ll pay him a visit myself, when I get back. Nice and tight around the buttocks, ain’t it? Old Cardigan’s cherry-bums don’t stretch that smooth.’

  ‘Bertie, you are going beyond the bounds,’ scolded Lavinia. ‘There are ladies present. Now, Jack, you would like some refreshment I am sure. It is not quite ready, so perhaps you would wish to take Jane for a short walk, before we all sit down to eat? I’m sure you have lots to talk about,’ she added, archly. ‘Bertie, would you ask one of the servants to fetch the white wine? It’s down in the harbour,’ she explained to Crossman. ‘We tie the bottle necks to a length of cord and keep them submerged under the water. The Black Sea is quite cold you know? It’s the currents, I’m told. It keeps the wine at a very nice temperature. Bertie’s idea, of course. I never would have thought of it. He’s so clever at things like that.’

  ‘I’ve just met a drunken sergeant on the road – I hope he didn’t discover your cache.’

  Her face darkened. ‘I hope so too, for his sake.’

  Durham went off. Crossman was glad to take Jane out of the dwelling, even though the air was damp outside. It seemed that it might rain very shortly, but he had to ask her the question. Once he had her to himself, he did just that, coming out with it almost brusquely. The fact was, it had been waiting in there for such a long time, it seemed to bolt from his mouth like a frightened rabbit. Jane studied him with a frank expression, before replying.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jack.’ She looked down, obviously distressed. ‘You – you don’t know, you see.’

  Her refusal shocked him to the core. He was so sure she loved him he had taken it for granted that the answer would be an unequivocal yes. Suddenly what had merely been a damp day was cold and bleak. He noticed the dark clouds scudding over a grey sky above. This was terrible! He fought against uttering a stiff ‘By your leave!’ and striding away, to nurse his shame and misery at being turned down.