The Devil’s Own, page 21
Then, to Crossman’s amazement, the buglers began sounding the call to retire, and the Light Division began to fall back in rag-tag formation down the slope.
‘What the hell’s going on up there?’ he said angrily to Lieutenant Parker. ‘Can’t we go up, sir?’
‘Yes, sir,’ came a plaintive chorus of Irish voices. ‘Let’s go up, sir.’
Sounding disgruntled, Parker replied, ‘We’re ordered to remain here, men, in this square, damn it to hell.’
A captain said, ‘Don’t you think your officers want to be in on the fight? It’s not our decision. We’re as aggrieved as you are, men. We’ll get our chance again.’
The Russian columns approaching the redoubt had curiously stopped advancing now. It was as if they could not believe they were being given back the redoubt as a gift. No one fired at them, the foe were inexplicably retreating. This caused confusion amongst their ranks. Their officers conferred with each other. Crossman guessed they would be wondering why resistance had collapsed. They would be suspecting a trick as they stood uncertainly off from their objective.
‘Don’t fire, don’t fire at the French,’ came the frantic call from the anonymous staff officer, who now galloped by the 88th.
‘Somebody shoot that silly bastard!’ pleaded a gruff Irish voice from the other side of the square.
Crossman wondered what the horseman was about, charging up and down and maintaining that the Russians were French. Either he was plain mad, or he was so shell-shocked by the battle that he did not know up from down. From their position the 88th could see the columns were Russian. The Vladimir Regiment was conspicuously carrying an icon of St Sergius which clearly protruded from their midst. Even if one could mistake their grey greatcoats, their helmets with the polished badges, and their officers, no one could imagine the French carrying the image of a Russian saint into battle with them.
However, the damage had been done. Down the slopes came the morose, battered remnants of the Light Division in irregular and shabby order. Now the Russians fired upon them. Every so often a redcoat would turn and petulantly fire back.
Crossman wondered about the support and looked down to where the lst Division were now crossing the river. His father’s kilted regiment was there: the 83rd Sutherland Highlanders with their magnificent bonnets of black ostrich plumes. The Scots Fusilier Guards were already fording the shallow water on the south bank. Could the Highlanders and Guards retake the redoubt? Now the Coldstream Guards and Grenadier Guards were in the shallows, accompanied by the 93rd, Camerons and the Royal Highland Regiment.
Surely it was too late?
Surely the Russians had turned the tide?
18
Unfortunately for both the brigade of Guards and the Highlanders, their division commander was young and inexperienced, and had already caused them to lie behind a vineyard wall for some time, while they itched to be up and in the battle. The Duke of Cambridge was still dithering a little: not lacking personal courage, but afraid of causing his division’s failure, especially since he had the magnificent Guards in his tender care.
Only upon receiving orders from General Airey did he finally pronounce: ‘The line will advance.’
Thank God for that! thought McIntyre. He had believed the order was never coming.
Sergeant-Major McIntyre had unsheathed his sword and, with this in his right hand and his revolver in his left, he encouraged the men of the 83rd to ford the river behind their brigade commander, Brigadier-General Sir Colin Campbell.
‘Look to yer front,’ the sergeant-major cried. ‘Remember who and what ye are! Highlanders, by God!’
McIntyre looked across at Brigadier-General Bentinck’s Guards and saw that the Scots Fusiliers were already over the river. He gave a little ‘Humph.’ What did they think they were at, hurrying over like that? All six regiments had to cross before any further order to advance could be given.
Sergeant-Major McIntyre had not reckoned with the impulsiveness of General Bentinck. While the water swilled around his waist, McIntyre saw a rider approach Bentinck and beseech him to go to General Codrington’s aid on the large redoubt above. Bentinck immediately gave the order to advance, even though he had only one regiment across the river, the Scots Fusiliers.
‘Wait for us, damn ye, man!’ muttered the sergeant-major under his breath. ‘What are ye thinking of?’
Then to his 83rd he yelled, ‘Hurry it up, hurry it up, the Guards’ll leave us naught but the pickin’s.’
On hearing the command to advance, the Scots Fusilier Guards surged up the hill like a wanton band of cut-throats, not waiting to be aligned, nor even waiting for the Grenadiers or Coldstream Guards to catch up with them, let alone the Highland Brigade. To McIntyre this was a horrifying sight.
‘Where is their line?’ he cried to one of his sergeants. ‘They didna even bother to dress ranks! Lord almighty, they’re a damn horde, so they are!’
‘Vandals or Visigoths!’ confirmed the company sergeant, grimly. ‘One o’ the other.’
In their isolated state, with no regiment to the right or left of them, the Scots Fusiliers drew all the fire from the Russians above. It hit them as a solid spray of lead, splashing over them, killing many, wounding many more. Yet bloody-mindedly they fought their way up through this hail, their officers having given up trying to sort out the line.
The colonels of the two remaining Guards regiments, Hood of the Grenadiers and Upton of the Coldstream, watched as helpless as Sergeant-Major McIntyre while the Scots Fusiliers struggled up the slope in ragged order, suffering in the storm of grape shot, canister and musket fire. Both decided they would have none of it. When they went up that hill their men would be in line.
The Grenadiers and Coldstream Guards were ordered to lie down under cover of a bank until the whole of the rest of the brigade were safely on the shore. Then the men were ordered to their feet again to re-form their line, the officers going along the ranks and, unperturbed by the battle raging above, patiently dressing the regiment.
This, while the Russians rained bullets down on them and threw shells at their heads.
McIntyre and the Highlanders were over the river now. He looked up to see ragged sections of the 23rd Welch Fusiliers, overwhelmed at last by Russians overrunning the redoubt, retiring down the slope and bumping into the Scots Fusiliers on their way up.
The Scots Fusiliers were actually making progress, despite their loose formation. Then some confusing order was given for the Welch Fusiliers to retire, which many of the Scots Fusiliers thought was for them. They, too, turned and joined the descent down the slope.
The other two Guards regiments were now on their way up and were appalled to see the Scots Fusiliers retiring down the hill. The Coldstream and Grenadiers were prepared to open their ranks to let through knots of the Light Division and 95th, but they looked sternly on the Scots Fusiliers and told them in no uncertain language what they thought of their retreat.
‘Where are you going?’ they cried to the retreating men in bearskins. ‘Have you no shame?’
The Scots Fusiliers took the rebukes to heart, reorganized, and once again took their rightful place in the brigade’s line.
Above them, the same confused staff officer was still riding about and telling everyone they were firing on the French, but now no one was taking any notice of him.
The Coldstream, Scots Fusiliers and Grenadiers marched on, stopped in a squall of lead to realign patiently, and then proceeded in immaculate order up the hill. They stepped carefully over the bodies littering the side of the hill, without even looking down. Dead and wounded were everywhere, but no Guardsman’s boot touched their person.
An officer of the Light Division, still with half his regiment remaining on their feet and wanting to return to the fight, asked one of the passing commanders of the Guards if his men could join them in their ascent.
‘Accompany the Guards? Certainly not,’ retorted the haughty Guards’ commander. ‘The very idea, sir!’
And with that the folorn officer was passed by, realizing that what he had requested was actually unthinkable.
Sergeant-Major McIntyre, ascending with his Highlanders on the left of the Guards, could not help but be impressed by the formation held by his brigade’s rivals. The Guards looked like giants in their tall bearskins, marching up the hill with impeccable precision, one rank firing, then reloading while the second rank fired.
The sergeant-major had no doubt that the sight of these smart, seven-foot soldiers would terrify the Russians as much by their refusal to waver their line in the slightest, as by the tremendous fire power they created with that line. The Guards could have been on a ceremonial parade ground, marching to a brass band, rather than ascending a hill in the Crimea.
The Highland Brigade had now drawn level with the 88th, still in the four-ranked square, awaiting a cavalry charge. Sergeant Crossman gave Sergeant-Major McIntyre a wry look as he passed, and the sergeant-major said, ‘Hard luck, laddie.’ Then the sergeant-major saw Crossman turn away quickly, as an officer passed by him. The officer was Major Kirk, whose son Sergeant Crossman had rescued. McIntyre wondered briefly why Crossman did not want to be seen by the major.
One of the Irishmen, obviously galled at being passed by a Scottish regiment, called sarcastically, ‘Yes, go on, Scotchmen, up you go, don’t wait for us, will you, you . . .’ and a stream of foul invectives followed. Language which would have made a murderer’s eyes water and cause a heart attack in a bishop.
At that moment there was a tremendous cheer from the right and both Irish and Scots turned to see the Guards streaming up to the redoubt, their bayonets before them, all their previous reserve gone now that the order to charge had been given. They swarmed over the redoubt and another great battle took place on that small patch of ground.
The Russians, however, had not turned into a rabble, but formed an orderly retreat and then regrouped ready to counter-attack. The hairy-kneed Highlanders moved immediately to the aid of the Guards, outflanking the Russians. The 42nd, being the closest to the Guards, fired volley after volley into the Russian columns. The enemy now realized that all was lost and began to retreat in earnest.
Sergeant-Major McIntyre pursued the enemy as ordered, his line breaking up slightly in its eagerness to force the retreat into a rout. A Russian skirmisher came up out of a hollow just a few feet ahead of him and, screaming in fury, rushed at McIntyre with a rifle and bayonet. The sergeant-major was almost taken by surprise, so sudden was the attack, but he managed to shoot his opponent in the face with his revolver.
‘Look out, sir!’ cried a Highlander near him.
The man still came on, his face twisted into a snarl, blood coming from his mouth where the bullet had smashed through his teeth and out the back of his neck. McIntyre stepped forward and with a swish of his kilt, executed a neat twist with his sword to parry the Russian’s bayonet charge, pirouetted swiftly, and was then right beside his attacker. He drove the sword into the man’s kidneys, pushing hard on the blade, until the Russian gave a little sigh and slid off the steel on to the ground.
‘I’ll be taking dancing lessons from you, sarn-major,’ called an officer who had witnessed the action.
‘Eightsome reel, sir,’ replied McIntyre. ‘Takes years of practice, mind.’
The Highlanders had sent out their own skirmishers under a Captain Montgomery, who cleared a smaller redoubt, chasing out the Russians who carried off their nine guns.
Next, a Russian column, bristling with weapons, approached the Royal Highland 42nd with menace in its carriage. It was like an oblong porcupine, its spines glinting in the sunlight. It clashed and clattered as it lumbered forward, steel against steel, dust rising around its many legs.
Though they were breathless from climbing the hill and could not storm the column, the 42nd advanced doggedly, firing as they went. Soon they found enough breath to give out a yell of defiance after every volley. Like the Guards, they were in perfect order, and their tenacity clearly showed in their faces and in their regular marching step.
‘Away and run!’ came the cries. ‘The Scots are here!’
This bravado, coupled with the strangeness of Highland dress, completely unnerved the Russian column. Sergeant-Major McIntyre saw it wheel about and retire at a healthy pace. So far the Highlanders had suffered few losses, mostly from the guns of the small redoubt which had since been withdrawn.
Now there was a new threat as the Susdal Regiment emerged from behind the Kourgané Hill and began attacking the 42nd on the flank. Sergeant-Major McIntyre and the 93rd, under Major Kirk, came to the assistance of the 42nd, arriving in line to pour fire into two battalions of the Susdal Regiment, causing them to lurch away in the smoke. McIntyre found it difficult to see through the haze discharged from the rifles and the smell of gunpowder bit into his nostrils. The latter only served to intensify his lust for battle and he emptied his pistol into the ranks of the Russians.
Now came the Camerons, the 78th, sending fusillades of lead into the flanks of the two remaining Susdal battalions. The 78th came almost at a run, yelling clannish oaths, their kilts swishing from side to side, inviting the Russians to a drubbing, promising them a right gude walloping if they would only stand and take what was coming to them. The Russians declined the invitation; understandably, with the 1st Division’s artillery rushing in to join the fray. The Susdals decided to withdraw at a dignified pace. They marched away in good order while the field guns were turned on their rear and took their toll of the four Susdal battalions.
A great cheer went up from the Highland Brigade as they realized that victory was theirs at relatively little cost. McIntyre experienced an immense feeling of elation surge through him. He waved his sword in the air and stamped his feet.
‘Hooray for the kilties!’ he yelled. ‘Away and find yer mithers, ye miserable weasels!’
Others had their bonnets on the tips of their bayonets and were waving them back and forth. In the greater redoubt, the Guards were doing the same with their bearskins. Now the Irish were allowed to break their square and come up to help with mopping up Russian skirmishers. The Russian centre and its right flank, traditionally the place for the strongest and bravest, the most experienced troops, had collapsed.
In the distance the allied guns were pounding, driving the Russians back towards Sebastopol. A Russian ammunition wagon exploded as it was hit by a shell, going up with a satisfying whumph which made the earth judder. The French, though their losses had been heavy, had smashed the left flank of the Russians, driving them back towards the centre. Plon-Plon and Bob-Can’t and the great General Bosquet had all had their successes. The enemy were streaming back to the Sebastopol road, with the Zouaves on their tails, harrying them every yard of the way. The French had fought as well and hard as the British and deserved their share of the credit for the victory on the heights.
Sergeant-Major McIntyre moved over the battle ground, his pistol reloaded, ready to shoot any Russian who might be hiding in a hollow ready to inflict a parting blow. Around him, his fellow Scots were still firing at selected targets.
Suddenly, to his astonishment, the sergeant-major perceived a young girl of perhaps not more than twelve years of age in the far distance. She seemed to be moving between wounded Russian soldiers, giving them water.
‘Whut?’ he muttered, shaking his head. ‘Am I seeing things?’
The little figure in a pretty blue dress was leading a pony laden with water bottles and bandages. She seemed to float between the dead and dying, ministering to those who would benefit from her help. Jock McIntyre still could not believe his eyes. He began to think he was delusional, suffering from battle fatigue perhaps. What would a child be doing on such a bloody battlefield while the fighting was still raging?
‘Hi!’ he called. ‘You lass. D’ye no ken there’s a battle on? Ye’ll get hit by a stray bullet if yer no careful. Away, wi’ ye. Back to yer parents, child.’
The girl looked up, but her demeanour registered annoyance rather than any other emotion.
Although he was too far away to make out the expression on her face, the Scot shifted his feet uncomfortably. He felt as if he were under the scrutiny of one of his more dour aunts. In her deportment the resemblance to a prim aunt ended, however, for she was milky-skinned and like some goose girl heroine from a fairy tale. Her blonde curly hair was held up by a blue ribbon which fluttered in the breeze. The charming dress she had on was dirty and torn in places and hardly reached the tops of her black polished boots now. The white apron, which such young women wore to keep the front of their frock clean, was splashed with blood.
As Jock tried to approach her she got on her pony and galloped towards the post-road, her ribbons a-flutter. There the ladies from the viewing platform were still hurrying away, not far ahead of the retreating Russian columns. McIntyre watched the young girl ride fearlessly through fire from both sides, the bullets whistling round her, seemingly careless of being hit. Looking at the bodies on the ground around him, McIntyre saw that she had carefully bandaged several of the wounded Russian soldiers in the vicinity and must have been there while the battle raged at its height.
‘Ye can join my regiment any time, lass,’ he yelled after her. ‘We can use men wi’ your kind of courage.’
He was still unsure whether the vision was real or not.
Later, Jock McIntyre discovered that the girl was indeed real. Her name was Dasha Alexandrovna, an orphan child from Sebastopol, who had sold all her possessions to buy a pony in order to minister to wounded Russians.
It was only once the battle was over that the 88th found their colours were still encased.
‘If the whey-faced bastards had seen our colours,’ grumbled a complaining Connaught private, ‘they would have known the 88th were here and maybe given us a scrap.’
Crossman, now released from the restrictive square formation, went off like the rest of his regiment to foray amongst the hills. When he looked around him, there were literally thousands of men lying dead or wounded. Most were in the yellow-grey uniforms of the Russian army, but there were others, too many, in red and green coats.
