Attack on the Redan

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  ‘What don’t I know?’ he asked, eventually.

  ‘I was engaged, you see.’

  ‘Yes, to the oaf who jilted you.’

  ‘But what you didn’t understand – what I did not, nor could not tell you, was that – that . . .’ She fell silent, looking away to the black hills in the north.

  ‘Ah!’ He understood her at last. ‘I see.’

  ‘I’m spoiled goods, Jack.’

  ‘You are not goods, Jane – you are a woman. A very beautiful one at that. I see no evidence of spoiling. I see a person with great spirit, with impeccable honesty, with a nature which outshines that of any other person, man or woman, I have ever met. If it is only an error of judgement that stops you from saying yes to my offer, then I have nothing to worry about. All you have done is rightly to trust a man who had given his word to you, to keep that word. The blame and the shame is his, not yours. I myself am not without stains on my character. Lavinia must have spoken to you?’

  ‘It is different for a woman. It matters more.’

  ‘Whether you think it does, or whether you think it doesn’t, I am not influenced by this revelation. I don’t give a fig for it. Will you marry me, Jane?’

  She looked up, smiling now. ‘Oh, I knew you would be like this – you are everything I want from a man, my honourable Fancy Jack. Yes, I will marry you. Nothing would make me happier.’

  He took her in his arms, his good hand flat on her back, his shortened arm around her slim waist. They kissed, as if for the first time.

  ‘This man,’ he said, as they walked back to the house, ‘I must know his name now.’

  ‘Do you have to?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She told him.

  He nodded, grimly. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t go calling him out. I regard him as the poorest of losers, you see. He has made the gravest error of his life and will spend the rest of his days regretting it. He will stand on hilltops, staring off in the direction of Derby, biting his lip and cursing himself for a fool. No, no, I’m not saying this for your amusement, Jane. I mean it. He sounds like one of those men who want everything, and end up being frustrated and miserable because no man can have it all. You will sparkle and his soul will grow as cold and brittle as burnt coke. He will shrivel within. When you meet, if you ever meet, on social occasions, he will be so snarled up inside with his envy of me and his stupidity on letting you slip away, he will die inside.’

  ‘Oh, Jack, how horrible.’

  ‘He deserves no less. I shall look him straight in the eye and my stare will say, “She is my wife, not yours, and you will never again know fulfilment.”’ Crossman did not say out loud, ‘May God damn him and rot his soul,’ but the silent words were tagged on naturally to the end of his little speech.

  Lavinia was waiting at the door for them. She knew what had passed between them from their looks. There were shades of envy in her, but she wafted them away with a determination to be glad for her ex-lover and her best friend. After all, she had chosen them for each other, and her plans had been carried out perfectly. She had her handsome, loving Bertie and now Jane was to have her Jack. They would make the perfect foursome, now that Jack was an officer. Of course, it did mean that Jack had to like Bertie, but though her husband was no genius thinker, he was very likeable. Jack could have no objection to him as a friend, for there was nothing about the captain quartermaster to dislike. He was bland, but not always boring, and he was a good sportsman and card player. That’s what other men liked about him and there was no reason why Jack should feel differently.

  ‘Luncheon is served,’ she said, taking Jane’s hand and whispering loudly into her friend’s ear. ‘How happy I am for you.’

  Crossman had just said goodbye to his Bashi-Bazouk comrade, the Turk Yusuf Ali. They parted knowing they were the richer for ever meeting at all. They vowed eternal friendship for one another, as men do after a harrowing campaign. It is genuine, for there is nothing like war to weld men together, even previously bitter enemies. When the allied armies had first got together, he had seen senior French and British officers hug each other with tears in their eyes, as if finding lost brothers: old men who had been deadly foes in the Peninsula campaigns. He and Yusuf Ali were now closer than brothers. There was also that eastern code which bound one man to another, which the west to its detriment did not own. Crossman would do anything on earth for Yusuf Ali. But Yusuf Ali would have gone into hell for Crossman.

  ‘I tell you they make you an officer,’ said Ali, proudly, ‘my wife says you are now her favourite son.’

  Crossman was appalled. ‘But what about her – her other sons?’

  ‘Bah,’ Ali spat on the ground, ‘they are ungrateful wretches. None of them have made themselves into officer like you.’ He stroked Crossman’s epaulettes as he spoke. ‘They are lazy pigs with no ambition. Still,’ he shrugged, ‘the oldest is but sixteen. There is time. And he is not my son, of course, but the son of my wife’s first husband, who died in the spice market in Constantinople, when he argue with a man who cheat him out of two grammes of saffron . . .’ The story went on for quite a while and involved several of Ali’s wife’s first husband’s cousins and uncles, who sought revenge, and eventually found it. Finally, Crossman got away.

  Crossman headed towards Balaclava Harbour, where he was to embark for England. Someone with a dog at his heels came up behind him and grabbed him roughly by the sleeve to whirl him round. The man who was accosting him was Captain Sterling Campbell, who now stared him up and down, taking in the lieutenant’s uniform with a triumphant sneer on his countenance.

  ‘Still up to your old tricks, I see!’

  Crossman looked the man coldly in the eyes. He spoke with iron in his tone.

  ‘Take your filthy hand off my uniform.’

  Shock registered in Campbell’s eyes. He saw something in Crossman’s expression that brought his racing brain up short. He let his hand drop, limply to his side. Crossman turned on his heel and walked on, leaving the captain staring after him.

  Jack was with his brother James, striding over the heather-covered hills on part of the family estates. The air was clear. They had shotguns under their arms, but even when a stag broke cover they did not raise the hunting weapons. They were too engrossed in each other and in the scene around them. Every country on earth has its beauty, but there is nothing quite like the Scottish hills and uplands for its grandeur. On a good day the scent of the ground cover is invigorating, and the sight of the strong crooked shape of a rogue Scots pine fills a man with pride in his country.

  ‘So, the old man has turned senile?’ said Jack. ‘And you must now manage the estates?’

  He had met his father for the first time since seeing him in the Crimea just that morning. The baronet, Major Kirk, had been pottering amongst the vegetables of the house garden, with one of the stable grooms louring in the background. This groom was the same menacing dark-browed man that had quietly threatened to ‘tak a pattle’ to Jack when he and his father had almost come to blows in the yard on the day Jack left home. The man was very protective towards his father.

  Jack had been warned by his mother of his father’s present frail condition. The elderly baronet had lost all his original fire and spleen, however, and had smiled feebly at Jack.

  ‘Hello, young man. Who are you?’

  ‘I am your son, come home from the war.’

  ‘Oh, are you? Here, look at these winter cabbage – aren’t they splendid?’

  Jack told his father – the father who until now would have spurned vegetables to hunt anything that had fur or feathers on its back – that he thought the cabbages quite magnificent.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ the old man had asked, after another ten minutes. ‘You remind me of someone. Oh, you seem to be without your left hand. Was it a hunting accident? I’m very fond of hunting, you know, but I should like to keep both my hands.’

  The groom had remained within earshot and Jack, feeling uncomfortable under his gaze,
left his father to his garden.

  This meeting had upset Jack a great deal, naturally. He had despised his father as only a bastard son can. But now there was nothing left to hate and his former feelings turned on him. He had put his good arm around the old man’s shoulders and given him a hug: a gesture that would have been impossible for both of them, before now. He hugged him as he would hug any simple, bent old man who needed assurance. Then he had gone in to see his stepmother and sought the comfort that only a mother can give.

  James said yes, it was a shame, for the old man had even given up painting.

  ‘He was a good artist, Jack.’

  ‘I know, I saw some of his works, out in the Crimea. I wondered at the time how something so beautiful could come from such a man as he – a man whose soul to me was as black as pitch.’

  ‘Ah, well,’ replied James, generously, ‘I had a different relationship with him, so I saw him differently.

  ‘Did it make any difference to your feelings for me? Once you knew I was only your half-brother?’

  ‘I do not agree with your use of the word only. A half-brother is a brother none the less. We were raised together from the cradle. Should I love you only half as much as I would a full brother? What rubbish you think about, Jack – I will have to get used to that name, I suppose, but it is still awkward on my tongue. You are my younger brother and childhood companion. I could not love you more if you were two brothers in one. Our mother – the only mother you have ever known – does not differentiate between us. We are her beloved sons. It is a shame about the rift between you and Father, but that is nothing to do with me. He was not a perfect man, of course – very flawed in his way – and I was always somewhat afraid of him – but there it is, now he is not much more sensible than one of those cabbages he raves about.’

  ‘What is to be done with him?’

  ‘Oh, Mother and I will see he is cared for here. Caleb McNiece, the groom, has said he wishes to see to his every need. You know he and Caleb were always tight together, both of them sporting men. Between you and me Caleb is rather tired of combing and brushing horses. He will live in the house and be at Father’s beck and call.’

  Jack said, ‘Yes, I remember Father being the only one who could ever understand fully what Caleb was saying, with his broad highland accent. What is a pattle by the way?’

  ‘It’s a sickle. You and I should never have gone to Harrow, Jack. We should have received our education here.’

  ‘What, gathering noils from the hedges?’ But then he added, ‘I feel as if Caleb McNiece has taken a pattle to me in any event.’ He held up his shortened left arm. ‘I have been cut about a bit, James, and I’m not feeling whole. You know Jane Mulinder has said she will have me, but I must gather my confidence again before going down to Derby to do the deed. You will be my best man, will you not?’

  ‘I should be honoured and delighted, but you know, Jack, you have already asked me and I have gladly accepted.’

  ‘I am getting almost as bad as father. War has shredded my brain, as well as my body. Have no concern. I shall remember henceforth.’

  His brother James, shorter than Jack, but built in the stocky mould of their father, stopped and placed a fond hand on Jack’s shoulder. There was to be a moment of genuine closeness between them, standing as they were on that heather-covered hillside above their childhood home. Both had dreamed of this time, when they were in the mud and mire of the Crimea, wondering if they would ever see each other again. Yet, here they were, together in the clear air of the land of their birth.

  ‘My dear brother, home safe. It is good to see you. Have I thanked you for the Russian sword? Of course, I must have done. It shall be placed above the inglenook fire in the drawing room, a position of honour. I pity the man you took it from, for I hear you have become a ferocious warrior. I find it hard to believe my gentle younger brother being such, but must accept what I hear from men who have no reason to tell other than the truth.’

  A half-white hare ran a curving path from the patch of foliage at their feet to a safer haven amongst some grey stones, not because of the brothers, but because it had sighted an eagle.

  ‘It is probably true, but not something I’m greatly proud of, James. I would rather you thought me the world’s best engineer.’

  ‘We must all follow our destinies, Alex – sorry, Jack. Yours is to be a soldier. It’s an honourable profession. There are great engineers who would exchange places with you in a moment. The world is entrusted to men like you.’

  ‘Not to me, James. To politicians. The army is the instrument.’ Jack paused and thought about it for a minute, before going further. ‘I suppose the only honourable soldier is a reluctant one.’

  ‘Nonsense. Soldiers defend the country from its enemies. There is great honour in that.’

  ‘No, the army defends the country. The soldiers that make it up are there to kill other soldiers, soldiers in a different uniform.’

  ‘But what choice do younger brothers have?’

  ‘I could be a priest.’

  ‘A most unlikely thing. I simply cannot see you in some seedy parish intoning litanies and liturgies. It won’t do, Jack.’

  ‘It might have made me a better man.’

  James shook his head in disagreement. ‘I think you’re in a very sombre frame of mind, Jack, but I can see I shall be unable to change your mood. Perhaps it’s the loss of the hand, or the end of a war, but something has brought you to this maudlin state. I refuse to believe that my brother, my dear brother, would do anything that was not honourable. There it is. The end of the argument. You may go out and be a highwayman now, I shall believe none of the sheriff’s men when they call. Let us go home. The light fails.’

  That evening the whole family sat down to dinner for the first time in many years. Their mother’s face was shining with pleasure. Her sons had come home from the war: albeit not unscathed, but they were alive. Both had acquitted themselves with honour. Jack read in her eyes that inwardly she was tinged with sadness over the plight of her husband. Jack could not really see why she felt any melancholy concerning his father, who seemed now a much pleasanter man than he had ever been when his mind had been complete. He had gone from being an outright despot to being a rather mild-tempered spaniel. However, their mother obviously missed some part of the original tyrant, for Jack caught her looking quite low sometimes.

  ‘How lovely it is, that we are all together,’ she said, brightly. ‘Isn’t it quite wonderful, my dear?’

  ‘Eh?’ said the baronet. ‘All together, is it?’

  He smiled because his wife was smiling.

  Caleb McNiece stood as stiff as a poker behind his master’s chair, ready to do him any service. The servant was a dark brooding presence in the room which Jack tried to ignore, though it was difficult. The man breathed menace from his glowering face. Just before dinner there had been a confrontation between James and the groom.

  McNiece had been helping the old man navigate the passageways to the dining room and came across James instructing one of the farm managers concerning the estate. McNiece had interrupted rudely with the comment, ‘The laird’s no dead yet. Ye should tak yer orders frae him, Hamish Calloway.’

  James had reacted immediately. ‘Keep a civil tongue in your head, McNiece, or you’ll be sent on your way with a week’s wages. Make no mistake about it, I’m the laird now. My father is not of sound mind, as well you know, and do not have any doubts that I shall dismiss you instantly if you are so foolish as to question my authority again.’

  Jack had been standing nearby, and he added, ‘McNiece, we are of one opinion in the family – my brother, my mother and me. We appreciate your long-standing loyalty to our father, but you will keep your place. Our father is mentally frail and we shall cope with that in our own way. You may have had power here while your laird was of full mind, but those days are gone.’

  Neither Jack nor James could forget the thrashings administered by McNiece, under instruction from thei
r father, when they were boys. Being a bully the groom had appeared to enjoy the exercise and it was a wonder that the brothers even consented to keep him in employment. The man had to be made to realize how precarious was his position now that James had power of attorney over their father.

  Caleb McNiece’s spiteful eyes had gone from one brother to the other and his face seemed to sharpen in its aspect. The manager, Hamish Calloway, had said nothing, but he had clearly been put out by McNiece’s hostility towards his employers. Finally McNiece had muttered something about ‘ungrateful whelps’ and then had continued assist the old man, who was fussing with the door handle to the dining room, turning it the wrong way and whimpering about the fact that the door would not open for him.

  ‘We’ll let that go,’ James had said to the whole company, ‘but do not think, McNiece, because my father was able to order me to do as he wished that I am soft with everyone in this life, or by God you will fly through the air so fast you will land beyond the border, believe me.’

  This time the stable groom had taken note and wisely kept his own counsel, and had reached over and turned the doorknob, then ushered the baronet inside the dining room.

  During dinner the amiable baronet kept up a stream of mindless chatter, but his voice was now so soft it did not intrude upon the general convivial atmosphere. Jack was able to tell his mother about his time in the Crimea, leaving out the really gory episodes. James now knew that his brother had saved his life on at least one occasion and since he had been ill at the time, he wanted to know the details. Jack of course played such events down, being even more modest with his own family than he was with strangers. He did however tell James about Campbell and described the man’s face when Jack had snarled at him.