The Devil’s Own, page 25
‘Seems a perfectly sound action to me, Rupert.’
‘Well, the rest of the wagon train didn’t agree with you. They wanted to hang me. Fortunately there were some Quakers amongst them who persuaded the widow to have me banished, which was much the same as stringing me up there and then. It was near impossible to survive in the wilderness on your own.’
‘Yet you did.’
‘Oh, I survived, Jack – but that’s another long Western tale,’ smiled Jarrard. ‘I’ll tell it to you some time, when you’ve got an hour or two.’
‘I’m not particularly busy at the moment,’ said Crossman.
‘No, it’s your turn now. You tell me a story, Jack, because I don’t like the imbalance at the moment. Let me hear something from you, first. Then I’ll continue.’
Crossman said, ‘That’s fair enough. Did I ever tell you about my first day at public school? You think you had a bad time of it, out there in the American badlands? Well, let me tell you: initiation rites at Harrow are something at which savage, primitive tribes would blanch. I was told to fag for Farrington, you see, who was a great bully . . .’
Inevitably it began to drizzle. Then the thing that Crossman had feared happened. They were coming to a gap in the hills. When they were halfway along this pass a troop of horsemen came out from behind some tall rocks and rode towards them. They had on czapkas, high helmets topped with white pompoms. Their jackets were yellow-fronted with blue sleeves and flanks. They carried lances, short-barrelled muskets and swords.
‘Ulans,’ murmured Crossman. ‘Voznesenski, if I’m not mistaken, eh, general?’
Jarrard drew his Colt. ‘At last – a bit of action – and it’s not my fault I’m caught up in it.’
But the cavalry did not notice the three men. The Russians wheeled and rode away to the east in loose formation, the light glinting on metallic pieces, the yellow and white pennons on their lances fluttering.
‘Damn,’ muttered Jarrard, holstering his pistol.
‘Don’t be so eager, Rupert, they would have cut us to pieces,’ said Crossman. ‘You’re supposed to be a non-combatant. You’ll get your chance in this war soon enough, I’m sure.’
Just at that moment a chunk of rock went flying from a boulder between Crossman and Jarrard. Then the sound of a shot shattered the evening quiet. The background chorus of birds and crickets fell silent immediately.
‘Hey, that was seriously close,’ said Jarrard, taking out his Colt again.
The three men took cover.
Crossman asked Ali, ‘Did you see where that came from?’
Ali responded by firing his carbine at a rise in front of them, causing a flock of starlings to burst into the sky like a cloud of grape shot.
‘This way, I think – out of north.’
‘That was no musket shot,’ said Jarrard, pulling himself into a sitting position. ‘I swear that was too far and too accurate for a musket . . .’
There was a bright flash on the horizon ahead and something hummed through the air above their heads. Jarrard aimed his Colt revolver and fired in the direction of the flash. Crossman did the same with his Tranter. Ali slipped away to the east, a pistol in each fist, while the other two men blazed away with their handguns. Ali’s rotund figure disappeared into the blue shadows of the countryside. The other two reloaded their revolvers and waited now, not firing in case they hit the Bashi-Bazouk by mistake. Finally, Ali returned.
‘I see no one,’ he said. ‘I hear no horse.’
‘Not Cossacks, then?’ Rupert said. ‘Foot soldiers? Out this far? And armed with rifles?’
Crossman said, ‘I think there was only one.’
He had a good idea now who their assailant had been. Once he was back in camp he intended to visit that person. He said nothing to Rupert Jarrard, however.
Once behind British lines, Jarrard left Crossman and accompanied the Bashi-Bazouk. The pair of them headed for a French canteen where hot food and drink were for sale. Jarrard had recently become interested in a pretty cantinière, though he could speak no French. Crossman was anticipating being asked to act as a go-between in the not too distant future.
Crossman went and found Devlin, Peterson and Wynter.
‘Where’s Skuggs?’ he demanded. ‘I want to speak to him urgently.’
‘Skuggs?’ said Devlin, looking round. ‘He was here earlier today, but I haven’t seen him recently. He’s probably over at the canteen – or with that woman.’
Crossman asked with a sinking heart, ‘Which woman?’
‘The McLoughlin woman. He’s been comforting her since the death of her husband, so I’m told.’
‘Has he, by God?’ muttered Crossman.
The sergeant then went on a hunt, throughout the camp, but failed to find Skuggs.
When he came across Mrs McLoughlin, Crossman stopped to speak to her. She was bent over some embroidery, trying to see her stitches in the inadequate light of a fire. Looking up, she gave Crossman a wistful smile.
‘How are you, ma’am?’ he asked, softly.
‘Coping,’ she replied. She made a gesture, showing him the embroidered linen in her hand. ‘I’ll probably have to unpick it in the morning. I really can’t see what I’m doing here.’
‘Has that man Skuggs been bothering you?’ Crossman said, glad that the dimness would hide his flushed face. ‘Because if he has . . .’
‘No, no. Private Skuggs has been kind.’
‘Ah, well. If he does become a nuisance, you will let me know?’
‘Sergeant,’ she said, putting the full force of those big dark eyes on him, ‘you have more to worry about than the widow of one of your soldiers. I shall be fine, really. I’m an Irish girl from the back end of nowhere. Two of my brothers died of starvation before they were twelve. My mother faded away in her thirty-second year. I’m used to death. And if you saw the hovel in which I lived before I married, you would know that this camp is luxury compared with that.’
‘I just wanted you to know you have . . . a friend.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. I shall remember you said that, but there are others who comfort me, the wives of my husband’s regiment, and I shall make it through.’
Crossman left her to her embroidery. His feelings were in a turmoil. When he was away from this woman, and she was out of his sight, he thought mainly of Lisette. As soon as he laid eyes on Mrs McLoughlin again, however, he felt a great passion surging through him, impossible to control. These emotions were confusing and unsettling. He felt his mind should be wholly on army business. Certainly, if he was to think of women at all it should be just one and not half a dozen.
It was not politic to fall in love with either woman at this time. Yet his feelings careened out of control whenever he saw one or thought of the other. He believed it might impair his judgement, and that was a matter of some concern to him. Still, there was little he could do about it, except to keep reminding himself that he was a soldier first and anything else he might be came afterwards.
While he was thus engaged in mental wrestling, he saw Skuggs walking between two fires, his rifle in his hands.
Crossman went right up to the soldier.
‘Skuggs? Where have you been?’
Skuggs gave Crossman a haughty look. ‘Been? Why, over in the French quarter.’
‘Why are you carrying your rifle?’
‘Should I leave it down where it might be stolen, Sergeant?’ said Skuggs in a show of innocence. ‘No. Where I go, this weapon goes with me. If thou don’t believe me about being in the Frog camp, go and ask some of them. Where did thou think I was at, anyway?’
‘I thought perhaps you might have come to meet me on the trail.’
Skuggs shook his head. ‘Not me, Sergeant – no reason to do that. Thou and me are not friends, are we?’
‘No, Skuggs, we’re certainly not,’ replied Crossman.
There was nothing for it but to leave Skuggs to his own devices. Crossman was certain that the fire he and the others had encountered on the latter part of the trail had come from Skuggs’ rifle, but there was no way he could prove it. Any more than he could prove that Skuggs had killed McLoughlin. Crossman could do nothing more than try to avoid being assassinated by one of his own men. He had to bide his time and await an opportunity.
To do what, he had no idea.
23
‘Lietuenant-Colonel Franz Edward Ivanovitch Todleben,’ said Brigadier-General Buller slowly, as if savouring the name like a good wine. ‘Never heard of him. You’re sure about this, Major Lovelace?’
‘A relatively junior officer, but a brilliant engineer. Comes from German stock, which you’ve obviously guessed from the family name. A friend of mine was at university with him at Heidelberg. His genius was a legend there.’
Buller paced up and down, fidgeting with his coat collar.
‘Would you like a glass of brandy, Major?’ he said at last.
‘No thank you, sir, at least not for the moment.’
Buller nodded and continued his pacing.
Finally, he said, ‘So, you think if the defences of Sebastopol are put in the hands of this Lieutenant-Colonel, he’ll stop us getting in.’
‘I’m certain of it. Of course, it may never come to that. We may defeat Prince Menshikoff in the field. I understand that although he has garrisoned the town with sailors, some twenty thousand of them, he and his field army are not within the city walls. There may be another battle before Menshikoff decides to retreat into Sebastopol, if he ever does . . .’
‘But, if it does come down to a siege?’
‘Then they will almost certainly put Todleben in charge of building the defences of the town. If they don’t, then they’re worse fools than I thought.’
‘You’re sure this Todleben – such an unlikely name – you’re sure he’s in Sebastopol?’
‘Absolutely certain of it.’
Buller lit a pipe and sat down behind a pine-topped table. He stared at the undulating planks of the table, as if looking for an answer amongst the many scratches and grooves. It had been in a farmhouse kitchen before being acquired by the general, and it had a long history as an altar on which chickens had been slaughtered. Black patches like dark pools attested to the blood which had been shed upon its surface.
‘So,’ he said at last, ‘what do you think we ought to do about this, Lovelace?’
‘It should not go above us, sir.’
Buller knew what Major Lovelace meant. The major was a man for secrets. What the senior staff did not know would not hurt them. Lovelace had developed some dark ways about him. He was a thoroughly efficient officer, not given much to battle heroics, but highly intelligent. He now worked tirelessly at intrigue, not so much for its own sake, as a courtier might, but towards specific ends. He knew where to strike during the lulls between battles. It was from him that Buller received most of his information about enemy numbers, positions, field officers and staff officers. Lovelace was an enigmatic man, but his information was thoroughly reliable.
‘You mean we should keep this from Raglan?’
‘General Raglan has certain scruples, sir, which I’m afraid I left behind in the school classroom.’
‘Your school had scruples, did it?’ said Buller. ‘Mine damn well didn’t. But I know what you mean. Lord Raglan and his division generals still look on war as a game with rules. You don’t, do you, Lovelace?’
‘I don’t mind playing to the rules, so long as it’s certain we’re going to win,’ came the reply. ‘Since that’s never a foregone conclusion, I prefer to step outside them when and if necessary. This is one of those times when we have to act completely ruthlessly.’
‘I do believe you would sacrifice your own grandmother to gain an advantage,’ said Buller.
Lovelace smiled. ‘I no longer have a grandmother with whom to barter, but were one still alive . . .’
‘Right, so tell me, what do you suggest?’
Major Lovelace took off his gloves and lit a cigarillo.
‘I think we ought to assassinate Colonel Todleben, before he has time to organize his sappers.’
Buller’s eyes opened a little wider.
‘I thought he was a friend of yours? I thought you admired him greatly?’
Lovelace puffed on his smoke and nodded. ‘I do admire him, which is why he will have to die. And I said he was a friend of a friend. That’s not quite the same thing as sacrificing one’s own university chums.’
‘It’s not far off. How do we do it?’
‘Send in Sergeant Crossman. He’s been into Sebastopol before – he can go again. The more he goes, the more familiar he’ll become with the streets and buildings. Let him go in alone, or with two or three of his men. Let him assassinate Todleben. Then we can rest our heads a little more easily at night.’
Buller nodded and said, ‘I was afraid you might say that.’
‘You think Lord Raglan would disapprove?’
‘I’m sure he would. However, I said I would give you a free hand and I will. It will be your responsibility – yours and Lieutenant Dalton-James ’s.’
Major Lovelace nodded.
‘I’ll see you won’t be disturbed with the details,’ he said. ‘And I’d prefer to leave Dalton-James out of this one. The less people who know, the better. Now, sir, if I may prevail upon you? I’d like a glass of that excellent brandy you mentioned earlier.’
‘Damn, you’re a cold fish, Lovelace, and no mistake.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the major, as if recognizing a compliment.
‘Oh, and congratulations by the way – on your promotion.’
‘Since it came from your hand,’ smiled Major Lovelace, ‘it must hardly be a surprise to you.’
Crossman might not have told Jarrard about Private Skuggs had not Jarrard himself raised the subject. The friendship which had sprung up between the two men was a good and firm one. Some friendships took years to consolidate, but others, especially those made in war, slipped into a state of trust with ease, both men recognizing that the bond between them was unusual.
‘Jack, those two shots, when we were approaching British lines,’ said Jarrard. ‘You don’t believe they came from Cossacks, do you?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘You’re holding something back.’
Crossman sighed. ‘I think it was one of my own soldiers. I have no firm proof, but I’m absolutely certain he was responsible for the death of another man on the battlefield – one of his own comrades.’
‘When you say responsible, you mean he failed in his duty?’
‘No, I mean he pulled the trigger – murdered him.’
Jarrard’s eyes opened wide. ‘Shit, Jack. You have to tell someone in authority, don’t you?’
Crossman said, ‘I told you, I have no proof.’
Jarrard shook his head. ‘There’s more to it than that, Jack, isn’t there? You’re holding out on me. Come on, give me the whole story.’
‘If I inform on this man, Rupert, he would say I was inventing a tale to get him out of the way, so that my path would be clear to pursue a woman.’
‘I see, there’s a woman involved.’
‘Well, not exactly, but – yes. It has unfortunately become a little more complicated than it should have been. The man in question is Private Skuggs . . .’
At that moment Major Lovelace arrived. He asked Jarrard to leave while he gave Crossman orders for a new fox hunt. The reporter was a little peeved, as always, to be cut out of the conversation, but he did as he was asked. Crossman was then informed of his mission and was aghast.
‘Assassinate him?’ he said. ‘You mean, kill him in cold blood?’
‘I think you heard me right, Sergeant.’
‘How is it to be done?’
‘In any way you choose. The method is entirely up to you and your men. We simply need to prevent Colonel Todleben from fortifying the city.’
‘And I cannot refuse to go?’
‘If you refused to go, you would be disobeying orders.’
‘Then I have no choice,’ said Crossman after a few moments’ thought. ‘I’ll take Peterson and Skuggs with me. And the Bashi-Bazouk, of course, for his knowledge of Russian as much as anything else. I shall also require civilian clothes for me and my men, sir. Have you any idea where in the city we can locate the victim?’
‘I prefer to use the word target. Yes, we do have two or three addresses. I’ll furnish you with those before you leave. Since they’ve begun work on the outer defences it might be best if you approach Sebastopol from the sea. There are some charts of the coastline and Sebastopol harbour in my tent, with which you should make yourself familiar. Come and see me when you’re ready.’
As a soldier, Crossman was of course inured to the idea that he had to kill other men. It was something which he could keep at arm’s length so long as he was at ease with himself over the circumstances. Perhaps one day he might regret the loss of those lives, at his hand, but for the moment he was able to parcel and protect his feelings.
However, he was certainly not at ease with being used as an executioner to assassinate an officer of the Czar. He did not like it and equated it with killing a man asleep in his bed. Crossman regarded such deeds as infamous and unworthy.
‘I have to go on a mission,’ he told Jarrard. ‘I don’t like it, but I have to do it.’
‘Are you taking Ali?’
‘Yes, and Skuggs and Peterson.’
‘Skuggs?’ murmured Jarrard. ‘Is that wise, since you believe he’s looking for an opportunity to kill you?’
‘I want him where I can see him.’
By nightfall, Crossman was heading south along the coast in a skiff. It was the same craft which Jock McIntyre had used to transport his men to the British ships when they had escaped from Sebastopol. Crossman was adept at handling small rowing boats on Scottish lochs and soon got into his stride.
‘You can take over the rowing in a moment,’ he said to Skuggs. ‘Once I begin to tire.’
