Jack Windrush Collection

Chapter 29

"We ask for sailing orders," Captain Evans said.

"Will we ever get to this blasted war?" Elliot asked.

"Once you do, Elliot," Snodgrass said seriously, "you will almost certainly wish that you had not."

With the young officers openly bemoaning their bad luck, Captain Evans returned to Poseidon and sailed fifteen miles north to Balchik Bay. They arrived just as dawn was breaking from the sea to the east, sending shafts of rosy light onto the ships that rode at anchor.

Poseidon"Painted ships upon a painted ocean," Jack misquoted Coleridge as he stared overboard.

"Dear Lord in heaven; there"s a sight for the eyes to behold," Elliot said.

Even the prospect of incurring the wrath of Major Snodgrass could not prevent the officers from crowding into the bows. Warships and transports of all sizes and descriptions filled the bay. With paddles churning the sea into a creamy froth, merchant paddle-steamers attached tow ropes to the bulky Indiamen that held the troops and eased them into five distinct lines. Smoke lay in a greasy black pall above black-painted hulls, obscuring masts and clinging like mist to topsails and royals.

"I"ve never seen so many ships at the one time," Elliot said.

"Not many people have." Even Fleming sounded impressed. "There must be hundreds here, three, maybe four hundred ships."

"British maritime power," Elliot sounded proud. "And filled with the cream of the British Army, all sailing to somewhere to defeat the Russians."

"I wonder where that somewhere is," Haverdale said. "We"ve been out of touch with anybody for so long the war could be over, and we might be sailing home."

"Oh, don"t say that!" Elliot nearly wailed.

Watching and protecting everybody were the grim guardians of the Royal Navy, silent and professional as they shepherded the merchant vessels and patrolled the edges of the fleet with their gunports closed, but crews agile and ready for instant action.

"I thought I had seen an army when we invaded Burma," Jack said, "but it was nothing compared to this."

"Look at that." Fleming pointed to something that floated in the water. Jack looked and shuddered. It was a man"s head and upper torso, bobbing up and down in the wake left by the scores of paddle-steamers. As he watched he saw another, and then another; heads and bodies and body parts bouncing on the waves.

"What the devil…?" Jack wondered.

"Don"t ask me," Elliot said.

"There"s something wrong here," Jack said softly. "Something has happened: maybe there was a battle with the Russians when we were swanning around the Med." The frustration at being cut off from news for so long built up within him. "What the devil is going on?"

"I think we"re about to find out," Elliot pointed to an eight-oared gig that approached them.

"Poseidon ahoy!" The hail came from a smartly-uniformed naval officer in the stern. "You"re a bit behind time are you not?"

Poseidon"We had problems." Captain Evans replied through the speaking trumpet. "What"s happening? Where are we headed?"

"We"re going to bell the cat!" The naval officer balanced easily despite the crazy rocking of his gig. "We"re all off to the Crimea to destroy Sebastopol."

"What happened? There are bodies all over the sea. Was there a battle?"

"Cholera!" the lieutenant said happily. "It followed us from Varna; it"s killing hundreds of the lobsters. We"re much safer at sea!"

"Oh, sweet God in heaven – cholera!" Captain Fleming stepped back from the rail as if the disease would rise from the sea and board Poseidon.

Poseidon"Where is our station?" Captain Evans asked.

"What"s your cargo?"

"The 113th Foot."

There was a pause as the lieutenant signalled the information in a flurry of flags.

"Here we go," Fleming said, "he"ll order us back to Malta or even England."

"Take station to the rear of the convoy," the lieutenant eventually ordered. "And wait for orders." The gig turned in an impressive display of nautical skill and surged away with the lieutenant sitting in the stern sheets and the oars rising and falling in perfect unison.

"Take station in the rear," Snodgrass said sourly. "The only place that the 113th should be."

Evans had not waited for Snodgrass to speak; the seamen were already altering the set of the sails.

For the remainder of that day, they remained in Balchik Bay, acutely aware of the periodic splashes as one ship or another added to the corpses in the water. Jack was thankful when night came, ending the sights of bobbing bodies. The memories of the dancing, grinning heads remained, yet at least he was soldiering, he was no longer acting the spy. He put that episode of his life in a compartment in his memory and firmly closed the lid.

As pink dawn tinged the eastern sky on the seventh of September, the fleet sailed in a flurry of canvas and the steady chunking of paddle-steamers. At the tail of the convoy, the men on Poseidon felt small and insignificant; they were a tiny cog in the machine of war. Jack and Elliot stood on deck watching the line of ships that stretched ahead, smeared with smoke from the steamers as the water was chopped and frothed by the wake of each vessel.

Poseidon"What a sight," Jack said.

"Six hundred ships, so I heard." Elliot"s face was animated.

A flurry of flags fluttered from the mastheads of the Royal Naval vessels that led each of the two lines of British ships, stretching a full five miles into the distance.

"Here we go," Elliot said. "Off to the Crimea, victory and glory."

"Oh God I hope so," Jack said. He saw Fleming"s face pale.

They were both wrong. The very next day they rendezvoused with the French fleet off the mouth of the Danube, cast anchor and once again remained static while the army fretted and suffered through disease. Small boats passed to and fro, carrying splendidly attired officers on visits to neighbouring regiments. Nobody came to Poseidon.

Poseidon"We are the pariahs of the army," Fleming said sourly.

"That"s not surprising." Now even Elliot seemed depressed by the unexpected delay. The hours passed away, with Major Snodgrass becoming increasingly irate and the men more resentful under his authority.

"I"ll check the men," Jack said.

"That"s the sergeant"s job," Fleming told him. "Best not interfere."

"They"re my men," Jack said as he slipped below, remembering the anger and bitter tension after Riley"s flogging.

"Where"s the colonel?" O"Neill"s voice rose above the hubbub of the packed and stinking troop"s accommodation. "Where"s Colonel Murphy?"

"He"ll be back when he"s fit," Jack didn"t know the answer.

"I"ll swing for that Major Snodgrass," Thorpe touched a hand to his bayonet.

"You"d be better to make sure your kit is clean," Jack decided to ignore the threat. "Major Snodgrass is holding an inspection in half an hour."

"Another b****y inspection?" O"Neill opened his mouth to say more until Jack interfered before he got himself into trouble.

"And you"d better be ready for it; we don"t want the French showing us up, yet alone the other regiments." Jack looked around the deck; many of the men were staring at him. "You men better prepare for the major"s inspection too," he said. More privates were pressing around him, flint-eyed soldiers with no reason to love an officer.

"Officers never come down here," one sallow-faced man said.

"They know better." The short Scotsman man pushed himself to the front. His colleagues gave him space.

"Officers stick to their own place," another man spoke; he had a tanned face and a broken nose, with the herculean physique of a railway navigator.

Jack heard the implied threat in the harsh voices. For the first time, he felt insecure among British soldiers. He straightened himself as best he could under the low deck beams. "There is nowhere on this ship that an officer cannot go." He kept his voice mild as if he hadn"t noticed the danger.

"No other officer would lower himself by mixing with us," the bookish private joined them. "And no other officer jumped into the sea to try and save a private soldier."

"You were on the rope, hauling me back on board," Jack spoke in the sudden uneasy silence.

"Trust the Bishop to try and rescue an officer." The voice came from somewhere in the mass, with a ripple of humourless laughter following.

"I never had the opportunity to thank you." Jack knew he could not shake the hand of a private soldier, much as he wanted to.

"I was doing my Christian duty," the Bishop said.

Jack nodded. "Thank you." He raised his voice. "You men make sure you are ready for the inspection. We will be landing in the Crimea soon, and we must all be at our best. Major Snodgrass has been trying to ensure we"re fit to fight the Russians. You and I and everybody in the regiment must help the major to make us the finest regiment in the army."

Jack had not expected rapturous applause for his speech, but he hoped for something better than total silence. "I"ll leave you in peace to prepare."

As he stepped away, he thought it best to ignore the short, cynical laugh.

"Calamity Bay? Who the devil chose that as a place to land?" Elliot lifted his face to the sun. "But what a glorious morning."

"It"s Calamita, not calamity," Fleming said pedantically. "Get your men ready; we are the last of the infantry to disembark of course; we spoil the look of the place."

There was an eerie atmosphere as the British Army left the ships and rowed or sailed onto the beach. Although the armies of the Honourable East India Company had massive experience in campaigns all across that sub-continent and there had been wars in South Africa and China, it was the first time in forty years that British soldiers had fought a European war. Most of this army had never faced an enemy or tested themselves in battle; nobody knew how they would act.

"This is nothing like the Irrawaddy." Thorpe displayed his military experience as he stood at Poseidon"s rail watching the army slowly fill the beach. "We had to work in the tropical heat, not on a beautiful autumn day."

Poseidon"Look at the officers," Jack recognised the harsh Scottish accent. "What a pack of prancing peacocks!"

Jack couldn"t fault the description. Dressed in full dress uniform including their swords, the groups of officers were conspicuous as they watched their men file ashore. "No packs for the men either; they look terrible." Gaunt and shaking, the infantry moved slowly, more like men convalescing from a prolonged hospital visit than soldiers at the very beginning of a campaign.

"That"s what cholera does," Snodgrass sounded more controlled than normal. "We"ve been cursing the slowness of the voyage, but it saved us from being infected with cholera."

"Well done the 113th," Jack said softly.

"Maybe our luck is not all bad, then," Elliot added.

"There"s the Russians now." Captain Evans pointed a long telescope to the cliffs, half a mile or so beyond the landing site. All at once half a dozen more telescopes focussed on the spot, with Snodgrass lifting a pair of field glasses.

"Cossacks," he said. "I think. Horsemen anyway; scruffy-looking scoundrels."

It was a long five minutes before Jack could borrow a telescope. He saw an officer in a bottle-green uniform surrounded by a group of shaggy horsemen with long lances.

"They look a handy bunch," he said. He mentally compared them with the Burmese cavalry he had met. "If they had any artillery, they could sweep us off the beach before we get established."

"Luckily they haven"t," Snodgrass said.

"I wish we were ashore," Elliot said. "We could take a company up the cliff and push these Ruskies off!"

Snodgrass snorted. "Our blackguards would have one look at them and run away."

The rain began in mid-afternoon, with water-parched men lifting open mouths to the skies and the troops ashore huddled in sodden misery without shelter. What started as heavy rain soon worsened to a storm that swept over the British Amy, adding discomfort to cholera-weakened men and multiplying the number who dropped in sickness and death onto the soil of the Crimea.

"Thank God for a nearly dry ship," Coleman jerked a thumb toward the land. "We"ve been lucky once again."

"The gods of war are smiling on the good old 113th," Riley said quietly. "And only God can help us if they should ever frown."

The good old 113th? Jack had never heard it called that before. Either Riley was developing sarcasm, or there was the beginning of some regimental pride among the men, whatever the officers thought. He looked over the privates yet again – there was more to them than some of the officers realised. With some nurturing and a couple of successes, they might develop into an adequate regiment.

The good old 113th?It was not until the early morning of the 19th September that the commanders permitted the 113th to land, the last infantry unit of the fleet to set foot on Russian soil. What they walked into shocked Jack. From the sea, the army had looked sickly enough, but once on land, he realised that there were already hundreds of sick and dead as exposure, dysentery and cholera continued their ravages.

"What the devil has happened here?" Elliot stopped at a pile of stores that lay abandoned just above the beach.

"There"s no transport to carry them," a laconic artillery officer told him. "Wellington would have a fit if he was here."

"What turmoil," Jack said, "but at least we are here; the 113th is part of a major British army in a war with a European power." He looked around, feeling a surge of unexpected pride.

"Are all wars like this?" Elliot looked in horror at a man thrashing in the final agonies of cholera.

"Probably," Jack said. "Maybe the 113th isn"t the best regiment in the army, but Lord Raglan has undoubtedly made a complete shambles of this landing."

Hard by the shore, the French were already waiting in formation, with bands playing and flags flying, while inland the green-uniformed men of the Rifles and hard-worked cavalry guarded the British flank.

"Where are we positioned, sir?" Jack asked as Murphy made his appearance among the men. Stick-thin, he looked as if he needed help to sit on his horse.

"With the Fourth Division." Murphy sounded hoarse.

"Glad to have you back, sir," Jack said.

Murphy nodded. "I had a recurrence of fever. It"s been in my bones since India." He didn"t mention his consumption. "Major Snodgrass, take us to the rear of the army, please."

"The rear sir? Are we the rearguard?" There was a hint of pleasure in Snodgrass"s voice.

Murphy shook his head. "No, Major. The Fourth Division is tidying the camp and taking care of the sick. We are burying the dead and following the army to collect the stragglers."

Snodgrass took a deep breath. "Yes sir; of course we are."

When at last the allied army marched, the sun was halfway to its zenith, pummelling the men beneath. Jack watched them go, the red-coated men already staggering under six days rations of biscuits and four days of meat, with greatcoat and blanket, rucksack and water keg and heavy Minié rifle.

"God, I wish we were with them," Elliot said.

"We must do as the general commands." Fleming sounded so relieved that Jack wished to upset him.

"Maybe the Russians will attack us, as the weakest part of the army." He tried to sound casual. "There were Cossacks on the heights when we landed. Perhaps they are gathering now, waiting to sweep us back into the sea." He stopped when he saw the look of fear that crossed Fleming"s face.

"Lieutenant Preston, take a score of men and guard the flank." Murphy looked around the confusion that the army had left behind. "We better get this blasted mess cleaned up. I want the dead buried and the sick taken on board the ships to sail back to Scutari." He swayed slightly and shook away Jack"s steadying hand. "I"m all right, damn it! Go and find some transport to carry these poor fellows."

"Yes, sir." The allied armies had managed to march about half a mile in half an hour, leaving a scattering of sick, British and French, lying behind them. Already some of the men were jettisoning their equipment, with packs, shakos and even a water bottle lying on the ground. The only wagons Jack saw were in the hands of the French. "How many men do I have, sir?"

Murphy put a hand on Jack"s shoulder as he swayed again. "You can have thirty. I want you to bring in the dead and bury them. Once that"s done find a wagon to collect all the equipment that the army is dropping all over the place."

"Yes, sir."

"Corporal O"Neill!" Jack shouted, "I need a wagon."

"Very good, sir." O"Neill waited for a moment. "Where do you suggest I get one, sir?"

"I"m sure you can find one, corporal."

O"Neill looked around. "Maybe it would be best after night, sir."

Jack hid his sour grin. "I think we understand each other, O"Neill. Now let"s get these poor fellows buried."

By dusk, they had dug over a hundred graves, carried over a hundred bodies and placed them as carefully as they could beneath the ground. Every so often, Jack borrowed a telescope and examined the countryside around, spending time studying the nearby French camp. "They do things differently from us," he said quietly, "and so much better."

"Are you ready, sir?" O"Neill headed a small group of privates. Jack recognised Coleman and the small Scotsman with his bitter-eyed companions. "I"ve got some good lads here."

"Names?" Jack asked.

"Logan," the Glasgow man slurred and winced as O"Neill rammed a hard finger into his ribs.

"You say "Sir" when speaking to an officer."

"Logan, sir,"

"Ogden, sir," the broken-nosed Hercules said at once.

"Hitchins, sir," the sallow-faced man"s accent rolled from the Shropshire hills.

"You men are under my direct command," Jack said. "If there are any questions asked about what we were doing, you say that you were following orders. Is that understood?"

They nodded, careless of authority.

"And if you let us down," O"Neill said, "I will personally rip your head from your body."

"What are we doing, corporal?" Ogden asked.

"We are adding to the supply column of the British Army," O"Neill told him grandly.

"This way, men." Jack took a deep breath and headed inland, stepping through what only two days ago had been flower-bedecked plain but was now a rutted, stinking morass.

"Sir," O"Neill spoke in a low whisper. "Have you done this sort of thing before?"

Jack shook his head.

"It might be best if we took the lead, sir." O"Neill looked over his shoulder at the privates who grumbled behind them. "I chose these boys myself. They know what they"re about."

Jack nodded. "On you go then, O"Neill. I don"t want any slip-ups to ruin the operation, particularly not by me!" He stepped aside and allowed the privates to move forward.

"Where the hell are you going?" A sentry challenged them.

"That"s where the hell are you going, sir," O"Neill corrected. "We have an officer with us."

The sentries watched them hurry into the gathering gloom, with O"Neill leading and his eclectic collection following. For the first time in the campaign, Jack felt the tension he"d experienced in Burma when he was outside the security of the British lines. He felt the pull of the open spaces to his left, knowing that the whole Crimean Peninsula stretched beyond him, and then the appalling size of the Steppes. Only God and the Czar knew how many Russians were marching down on the disease- ravaged allied army. He shivered as he thought of the vast spaces of Russia and the armies that had failed to conquer it before. Now it was Britain with her tiny, mismanaged forces and over-dressed, gentlemanly but bumbling commanders, and France – her ally – who were invading this vast nation with her intense national pride and mysterious depths. The prospect was suddenly appalling.

"Sir." O"Neill"s soft voice disturbed Jack"s reverie, and he came back to reality. He had been walking instinctively toward the bonfires that silhouetted the dim shapes of tents and the shuffle of moving men.

"b****y Frogs," Coleman grumbled. "Trust them to have tents."

"Coleman, you and Hitchins go left and make a noise." O"Neill gave quick orders. "You know what to do."

Jack watched the two privates obey; within a minute there was the click of metal on stone and a soft grunt.

"Qui va la?" One of the French called.

"Qui va laThere was a low moan, and two French soldiers moved forward. For one second, firelight glinted on wickedly long bayonets, and then the French vanished beyond the periphery of the light and into the dark.

"In we go, boys." O"Neill led them into the French camp, keeping to the shadows and moving as confidently as if they belonged there.

"On the right side," Jack murmured. He stopped as a group of Zouaves walked past, distinct in brilliant baggy silk pants below their tunics and rakish fezzes above. "Here we are, men."

Local to the Crimea, the araba wagons were heavy and cumbersome, but far better than nothing. Some had solid wheels; some were half covered like the prairie schooners of the American West. They were arranged in long, neat lines and watched over by a dozen lounging guards wearing long coats.

araba"Here, sir," Coleman appeared from the dark. He passed over a Zouave tunic, scarlet trousers and fez. "There"s one for you too, corporal."

"Well done, Coleman." Jack slipped the tunic on. It was tight across his shoulders. "Keep close men and keep quiet." He removed his forage cap and donned the fez, finally slipping the baggy silk trousers over his own and barely sparing a thought for the unfortunate French soldiers who had to endure the chill of the night undressed and uncomfortable.

Feeling a lot less confident than he hoped he appeared, Jack stepped forward into the wagon park, nodded to the sentries, and threaded his way through to the far side, where a hundred or more horses were tethered nose to nose in two long lines.

"Any of you men know anything about horses?"

"I do, sir." Hitchins sensibly kept his voice low. "I was a ploughman."

"And a poacher, eh, Hitchie?" Coleman added.

"Good man." Jack ignored Coleman"s contribution. "You and I will select the best horses then. These are two-horse wagons, so I want eight horses; sufficient for two wagons plus spare horses."

Hitchins nodded. "Very good sir." He hesitated. "If you don"t mind me saying, sir; these are two-horse wagons, but one horse can manage them, sir, when they are unladen."

"Do you know about the arabas?" Jack tried to hide his surprise."

"I know nothing about Arabs, sir. I know about wagons though."

About to explain that the wagons were called arabas, Jack closed his mouth. "What are you suggesting, Hitchins?"

"We can take more horses than eight, sir, if you want them."

"How many can you get?"

Hitchin shrugged. "As many as you wish, sir."

"Twenty?" Jack plucked a number from the air.

"All right, sir. Who is getting the wagons, sir?"

"Corporal O"Neill will do that." Jack saw that O"Neill already had the men organised and was selecting the two most robust vehicles.

"Spoked wheels now," O"Neill said, "it gives a lighter ride, and for God"s sake try and find wagons with some suspension. These things will be carrying wounded men."

"Carry on, O"Neill." Jack left him to it while he and Hitchins stepped to the horses" lines.

They moved among the animals, looking at teeth, coats and legs, with Hitchins sighing and cursing in turn. "Some poor-quality rubbish here, sir." Hitchins didn"t try to disguise his disapproval. "Trust the Frenchies to steal everything first and have no idea about horseflesh."

"Select the best, Hitchins and keep your voice down."

"Do you know about horses, sir?"

"I"ve been riding since I could walk," Jack said and closed his mouth. He had to keep distance between himself and the other ranks. He was their officer, not their friend.

"Qui est ce?" The challenge rang out loud across the restless horses.

"Qui est ce"Ami!" Jack thought it best to answer at once. He didn"t want a nervous sentry firing a shot and starting a battle. Stepping forward, he allowed the French to see his uniform. What was the penalty for an officer stealing from an ally? Probably cashiering at least, plus a hefty jail sentence.

"They"re loose, sir." Hitchins whispered in broad Shropshire. "Eighteen of the best."

"Wait until this Frenchy has gone."

"The wagons are ready." Logan kept back from the horses. "If that thing kicks me, I"ll do for it!"

"It"s harmless, Logan," Jack said, "as long as you watch for the hooves and teeth. Keep your voice down! There"s a Frenchman just over there."

Logan glanced over. "Do you want me to do for him, sir?"

"No, I want you to keep quiet!"

"Qui est ce?" The Frenchman repeated, louder. He shouted something else, and two more French soldiers joined him.

Qui est ce"Here"s trouble." Logan sounded happy at the prospect. His right hand strayed inside his tunic.

"Keep quiet and keep your heads down!" Jack hissed. What was best to do? Keep still and hope the French walked away? Or try to bluff them?

What was best to do? Keep still and hope the French walked away? Or try to bluff them?He realised that neither was possible as the French approached. There was a dozen of them in the long blue coats of line infantrymen, some fitting bayonets with ominous clicks and all talking, gesticulating and very dangerous.

"Come on, you bastards," Logan muttered, pulling his bayonet from underneath his tunic.

They came from two sides, yelling loudly and probing with their bayonets. Hitchins was first to run, with Ogden close at his heels. "Come on, sir." O"Neill tapped Jack on the shoulder. "There"s no reasoning with men in that mood."

"You too!" Jack hauled Logan back as he glowered at the French, muttering curses and threats.

"They"re in front of us as well," O"Neill shouted as another surge of Frenchmen cut them off from any retreat.

"Run!" Hitchins yelled, high-pitched.

"Which way?" Ogden asked.

Jack felt a flicker of something like panic. This situation was worse than facing the Burmese – then he had been a soldier doing his duty, and he could legally shoot his way out of trouble. Here he was breaking every law known to man, looting from an ally. If the French caught him, he could expect only disgrace; worse, he had led his men into a situation where they faced the cat. The best he could do was to give himself up and say his men were following his orders.

Jack stopped running and stood upright. "Gather around me, men."

"We"ll fight the bastards," Logan flourished his bayonet, apparently prepared to take on an unknown number of Frenchmen for whatever reason.

"No, we won"t." Jack pushed his hand down. "Put that away, Logan. The French are not our enemies."

The sudden clamour came from the northern fringe of the French lines, accompanied by one shot, then two, then an irregular crackle of musketry. A bugle called, and then another and the French soldiers turned away.

"The Russians have attacked," O"Neill said. "Saved by the Ruskies!"

For a moment Jack wondered if he should lead his men to help the French, but common sense told him that his handful, minus their muskets, would be more hindrance than help.

"Hitchins, get these horses back; hitch them onto the wagons. I want four wagons. O"Neill, Ogden, help him. Logan, you and I are the guards."

The shooting intensified, coming closer as the unseen Russians pressed forward their attack. Jack flinched as a stray musket ball zipped past him to bury itself in the dirt a yard away, then he swore as one of the horses emitted a high pitched scream.

"The bastards are after the horses," Hitchins raised his voice. "b****y Russian brutes!"

"Keep working," Jack shouted, "never mind the shine!"

More musket balls whined around them while the acrid reek of burned gunpowder tingled their nostrils. Unsettled by the noise and despite all Hitchins" efforts to calm them down, the horses were panicking.

"That"s two wagons hitched, sir!" Hitchins shouted, "I"m working on the third…"

The sudden surge of men took Jack by surprise. He looked up as a body of French infantry ran past him, with one or two throwing away their weapons in their urgency to escape. Behind them was a troop of Russian cavalry, dimly seen in the intermittent light of the camp-fires. Jack saw bearded men with shaggy hats, long lances or long straight swords, riding hard through the French lines.

"Hurry it up, men!" he shouted, "The Russians have broken through."

"That"s three wagons ready," Hitchins yelled. "One to go!"

"Leave it," Jack said. ""We"ll settle for three. Get out of here!"

The Russian cavalrymen were slashing right and left, hacking at the running French, doing what cavalry were intended to do. Jack lifted a musket from the ground, hauled back the hammer and levelled it. If any of the cavalry threatened his men, he would fire. Otherwise, he would not draw Russian attention.

A movement amidst the cavalry caught his eye. Three men had stopped, with the light from a campfire flickering over them. Two were apparently officers, tall men shouting orders. The third wore a darker uniform, but Jack instantly recognised his face. He was broad in the shoulders with a neat blonde moustache.

"What the devil!" For a second Jack had him in the sights of his musket and pondered pulling the trigger. The last time he had seen that man had been in Dar-il-Sliem in Malta. What the deuce was Stevensen doing as part of a Russian cavalry unit in the Crimea?

"Sir!" O"Neill shouted.

Jack glanced over his shoulder. O"Neill was gesticulating to him. "We"re ready, sir!"

When Jack looked back at the Russians, the group of officers had moved, and he couldn"t see Stevensen.

"Sir!" O"Neill sounded desperate.

A bugle sounded shrilly and a formation of French infantry moved forward, fired a volley and advanced against the cavalry. All around Jack"s men the horses were panicking; the French fired again, the muzzle flares bright against the dark, the sound of their musketry loud and the clouds of powder smoke drifting in an acrid haze. For an instant, Jack saw Stevensen once more, his figure steady amongst the prancing horsemen, his sword raised. Slightly behind him rode the tall man with the eye-patch.

"The French have the situation well in hand," Jack said, "let"s go, men!"