Victors and Lords Page 5

  “Alex,” he said bluntly, “why did you challenge Lord Cardigan? Surely you knew what the outcome would be?”

  Taken by surprise at this question, Alex stiffened. He answered it, however, as honestly as he could. “He had driven me to the limit of my endurance, sir. Perhaps had I realized what the outcome was eventually to be, I should have held my hand. But”—he shrugged resignedly—“even now I am not convinced that I should or could have done so. I had seen others driven, as I was, to seek satisfaction from Cardigan and fail. He made a practice of insulting certain of his officers in public, sir, and then claimed his privilege, as commanding officer, to avoid being called upon to withdraw the insults or making them good. I demanded that he waive his privilege in my case, sir . . . in writing. But he refused and—”

  “Certain of his officers?” Colonel Beatson put in, frowning. “What do you mean by that, Alex?”

  Alex’s expression hardened. “His lordship wanted the 11th to be officered by gentlemen of his own class, sir, well connected and possessed of substantial means. After seventeen years in India, most of our officers were professional soldiers, who were dependent on their army pay for the most part and who could not afford to buy promotion or hunt three days a week and entertain lavishly. Cardigan wished to be rid of them, in order to make way for officers of his own choosing, who could afford to do all these things. He had changed us from Light Dragoons to Hussars, sir, our uniform had been redesigned . . . His Royal Highness the Prince Albert had been appointed our colonel-in-chief. The 11th was considered smarter than the Guards, sir, and there weren’t enough commissions available to meet the demand for them. His lordship set out to make them available by forcing our so-called ’Indian’ officers to sell out or exchange into other regiments. If they did not do so willingly, then pressure was brought to bear on them.”

  “Pressure, Alex?” Colonel Beatson’s brows lifted.

  “For want of a better word, sir . . . or an uglier one. It amounted, in some cases, to deliberate persecution.”

  “Did it amount to that in your case, my friend?”

  “In mine and in others, I consider that it did, Colonel,” Alex said forcefully.“The others were my friends, to whom I felt a certain loyalty. They had served in the regiment for many years and . . .” he bit his lower lip, a swift anger blazing momentarily in his eyes. “When I challenged Lord Cardigan, I expected, of course, to be tried by court martial and cashiered. But I believed that I should be afforded the opportunity to draw official attention to conditions in the regiment under Lord Cardigan’s command . . . they were past all bearing, sir. I had not any adequate defense, the court would have been bound to find me guilty. . . but I had justification and I think I could have proved that I had, if I had been given the chance. But instead I was ordered to sell out and the whole matter was officially hushed up . . . by Lord Raglan, sir. As Lord Fitzroy Somerset, he was then military secretary.”

  “Dunloy said you were a fool—and then admitted that if he had had the courage, he would have done the same in your place.” William Beatson spoke thoughtfully. “I don’t consider you a fool, Alex. How did Lord Cardigan drive you to the limit of your endurance? You’ve never told me, have you?”

  “No, Colonel.” Alex was silent, feeling the hot blood rushing to his cheeks. Finally he said, “I had endured his tyranny for years. I loved the regiment, it was my life and I was determined that he should not force me to exchange or sell out. But matters came to a head, in the end, when I refused to obey an order he had issued, because I felt it to be unjust. Cardigan reprimanded me in front of the assembled regiment on morning parade and when I still refused to obey the order, he lost his temper and struck me across the face with his empty glove. . . .”

  Alex shuddered, reliving the scene. He had refused to administer a flogging to a man of his squadron for some trifling misdemeanor and, heedless of his own vulnerability, had endeavored to plead the man’s cause and Lord Cardigan had rounded on him furiously. He might have suffered the blow with the glove without reply but then had come the final deliberate and quite unforgivable insult. Cardigan had made a sneering reference to his betrothal to Phillip Mowbray’s sister, implying that he had taken advantage of the fact that Phillip was a brother officer in order to ingratiate himself with the Dunloys.This had been more even than he could stomach. He had gone to his quarters in the grip of an anger so intense that he had been powerless to control it and, in a letter intentionally modeled on the one written by Richard Reynolds, some years before, he had issued his fatal challenge. That had been madness, of course—with Reynolds’ example before him, he had known what would be the result. Cardigan’s answer had been to place him under close arrest and apply for his court martial.

  Ironically Phillip had been the officer charged with his custody and Phillip had reproached him for his loss of temper and his suicidal gesture of defiance. But then, Alex reflected bleakly, Phillip had not heard the words Lord Cardigan had flung at him concerning his betrothal to Charlotte and he was, in the circumstances the last person to whom they could be repeated. . . .

  “And . . .” Colonel Beatson prompted, from beside him.

  He smiled gravely. “In addition, sir, his lordship offered me a personal insult that left me with no choice but to call him out. Unfortunately few people heard it, for he lowered his voice but the whole regiment saw him strike me.” Alex’s smile faded. “I haven’t thought of the affair for years but all too soon, I fear, I am likely to be reminded of it, when brought face to face with the noble gentleman again. I can only hope that I have altered sufficiently in my physical appearance as to avoid recognition . . . at all events until after I have put in my request for employment. Otherwise I may regret having left the Turkish service so precipitately.”

  “We may both regret that, my friend,” the colonel told him. “They say . . .” He jerked his horse to a standstill, holding up his hand. Behind him, the Bashi-Bazouks came obediently to a halt. The track ahead of them rose steeply, narrowing into the neck of a rocky, tree-lined gorge which twisted down towards the river. Colonel Beatson signaled to the dark-faced leader of the troop and the man instantly set spurs to his horse and made off in pursuit of the scouts.

  The two officers waited, listening intently and straining their eyes into the darkness ahead. But there was no movement, no sound, save for the faint echo of hoofbeats, as the leader of the Bashi-Bazouk troop breasted the slope on his sturdy, halfshod horse.

  In a little while he returned, as swiftly and silently as he had departed, with one of the scouts riding at his heels. A wolfish smile played about his mouth as he approached the waiting officers and his voice shook with suppressed excitement as he said briefly, in his own language, “Cossacks, Lord! They camp at the summit of the hill with but half a dozen sentries posted to give them warning of attack.”

  The colonel studied the little he could see of the hillside with speculative eyes. “How many are they?” he asked evenly.

  The troop leader spread his hands. “Perhaps five score, O Mighty One. Perhaps a few more than that, it is hard to tell. But our men have the sentries covered. In the darkness, they will be neither seen nor heard . . . and the rest of the Cossacks sleep.”

  “Where are their horses?” Beatson asked.

  It was the scout who answered and he, too, was smiling.

  “Lord, the horses are tethered at a little distance, with two men watching over them. It would be simplicity itself to cut them loose, once the sentries have been disposed of and then”—his voice rose exultantly, as he glanced at the eager faces of the men clustered about him—”we could go amongst them with our knives!”

  A fierce murmur of approval greeted this suggestion. The Bashi-Bazouks’ hatred of the Russians was proverbial and, looking from one to another of the savage, hawk-faces of the men composing the troop, Alex wondered whether Colonel Beatson would be able to control them. Their respect for him amounted almost to veneration, it was true, and usually they obeyed his commands wi
thout question . . . but this was the sort of action they liked. A sudden attack, under cover of darkness, on a sleeping enemy, and that enemy a Cossack—Alex knew that it would not be easy to restrain them, even for William Beatson.

  They waited, out of deference to him but it was evident that they were all impatient to be gone. Already one or two were fingering the knives in their belts and each face wore the same lustful, wolfish smile that the troop leader’s had worn, when he had first reported the presence of the Cossack sotnia. The Bashi-Bazouks were bloodthirsty, primitive warriors, whose instinct was to fight and kill, regardless of strategy, and none now remembered the purpose of his mission or cared about its fulfillment, when the chance of battle had been offered.

  “Lord,” the troop leader pleaded urgently through tightly clenched teeth, “is it not a good plan? May we not ride at once?”

  Alex became aware of sharp prickles of apprehension coursing up his spine and of a dryness in his mouth that always came, just before he was called upon to go into action. Both ceased, when he was actually in the thick of battle, but he had never been able to overcome either sensation during those tense moments of waiting which were the prelude to an attack.

  He possessed, he was well aware, too vivid an imagination and, as he listened intently for the colonel’s answer, he found himself picturing the Cossack bivouac on the rock-strewn hillside and mentally assessing the odds against their small, lightly armed force. They would have the initial advantage of surprise, of course, and he did not doubt the scout’s boast that the sentries could be disposed of and the horses cut loose without a sound to disturb the sleepers but . . . there was a hollow ache of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. Cossacks slept lightly, with their weapons beside them and . . .

  “Lord,” the troop leader cried again, “Lord, may we not attack the accursed Cossacks?”

  Very slowly but with finality, Colonel Beatson shook his head.

  For a moment, Alex feared that the Bashi-Bazouks were about to challenge their commander’s decision. They stared at him in mute dismay, unable to comprehend his refusal, reluctant to believe that he had rejected their black-browed leader’s request. A camp of sleeping Cossacks at their mercy and they were being ordered not to attack. . . .They started to murmur angrily among themselves.

  “Hast thou a better plan, Great One?” the troop leader asked sullenly. For answer, Beatson gestured towards the unseen head of the defile, through which lay the track they had been following. He ordered, without raising his voice, “Go thou thither, Arif, and report to me all that thou seest. Go with caution and make no sound.”

  The troop leader hesitated for an instant, as if about to protest. Then, thinking better of it, he bowed his head in token of submission and made off in the direction the colonel had indicated. Silence followed his departure and Alex, warned by Colonel Beatson’s expression, made no attempt to break it.

  When the dark-faced Arif returned, he was crestfallen and subdued.

  “Well?” Beatson demanded, his voice rasping.

  “Lord, thou art the wisest among us,” Arif acknowledged humbly. “Thine eyes saw through the darkness, where mine did not.” He glanced at the men, crowding about him, and gestured towards the head of the defile. “A host is gathered on the river bank engaged, though it is night, in crossing the river with guns and horses. Had we attacked the Cossack post, we would have raised a hornet’s nest about us.”

  The colonel regarded him unsmilingly. “Then send out scouts again—we will strike westward across the hills. Take six men with thee and, as thou goest, cut loose the Cossacks’ horses. But raise not thy voice and lay not a hand on any save the sentries, or I will take thy rank from thee. Dost thou understand?”

  The troop leader’s salaam was respectful.

  Within twenty minutes, he was back, waving his hand to indicate that the way was now clear. He rejoined the troop with his six men as Colonel Beatson gave the order to trot. The little party rode on towards the hills, the scouts spread out ahead of them as before, and Alex found his tongue at last.

  “How did you know, sir?” he asked, in English.

  “I did not know,” the older man confessed, with disarming frankness. “But there is a ford at that point and it seemed to me an obvious place to choose for a crossing. The Russians are anxious to save their guns, so . . .” he smiled. “Besides, did not Arif say that the Cossacks slept?”

  The simplicity of his reasoning was impressive and Alex echoed his smile.

  The moon rose as the little troop descended the far side of the range of hills and found themselves once more on a narrow track which led through flat cultivated land, in the direction they sought. The excitement of their brief encounter with the Russians died down and they slowed to a walk, the men fumbling in their pouches for the provisions they carried and ate, habitually, in the saddle.

  “Tell me about Lord Raglan, Alex,” William Beatson requested unexpectedly. “I’m aware that you have only met him once and that the occasion is probably one you’d prefer to forget but . . . I should like to know what impression you formed of him. How is he, as a man? I’ve heard about him, of course, and I know that he enjoyed the personal friendship of the great duke—who did not bestow his regard lightly—over a period of many years.”

  “He became the Duke of Wellington’s military secretary in 1810, sir,” Alex supplied, “and was with him throughout the Peninsular campaign. He married the duke’s niece—”

  “Yes, yes . . . these are facts anyone can find out,” the colonel interrupted. “I want to know more than the bare details of his career. Describe him to me as you saw him . . . and be frank, Alex. You know that I shall not betray your confidence.”

  Alex’s brows came together. Almost against his will, he found himself returning in memory to the austerely furnished room overlooking Whitehall in which, eight years before, Lord Raglan had received him. He had gone to the Horse Guards that day confident that, if nothing else, he would be given a hearing and the chance to state his case. Instead . . . he stifled a sigh. Cardigan’s hand had reached him, even there; Cardigan’s influence had been apparent in the manner in which the military secretary had dealt with him. There had been no vindication, no escape, no justice and he wondered, looking back, why he had expected any of these things, when the dice had been so heavily loaded against him. And yet, against all reason, he had expected to be heard. To be sacrificed, of course—he had not sought to escape retribution—but not to be sacrificed in vain. Not, God help him, to be condemned unheard, as he had been. . . . He sighed again, regretfully. Across the years, Lord Fitzroy Somerset’s opening words came to him. The military secretary had looked up and smiled, he remembered, a mild mannered man with the appearance, not of a soldier, but of some gentle scholar or kindly Father Confessor. His voice, too, had been mild and not unsympathetic when he said, “Lieutenant Sheridan, the honor of your regiment demands, I fear, the sacrifice of all personal feelings in this unhappy affair. Both yours and my own. . . .”

  Stung afresh by the memory, Alex increased his pace, kneeing his horse impatiently, as if thus to put it behind him. But it was useless—a futile, abortive attempt to escape the torment of his own thoughts. He knew that he had not forgotten, would never be able to forget the injustice which had been done to him that afternoon in Whitehall, eight years before. His feelings and not Lord Raglan’s had ultimately been sacrificed . . . and not only his feelings. His honor, his career, even his marriage to Charlotte Mowbray—all these had been disregarded by the smiling, serenefaced soldier-prelate, who had spoken so glibly of honor but who, it seemed, knew no other interpretation of it than his own. His own or, perhaps, that of his military superiors. . . . Suddenly sick with bitterness, Alex gave vent to an angry exclamation.

  “Alex my dear fellow . . .” Colonel Beatson’s deep voice brought him abruptly back to the present. He drew rein and waited. “I am sorry,” the colonel went on, “if my question has revived bitter memories for you. The opening of an old wound
is always painful but sometimes, in order to effect a cure, it is necessary to open it.”

  “I fancy you may be right, sir,” Alex agreed, without conviction. But he felt his anger drain out of him. It had all happened a long time ago. The past was over and he was no longer a boy but a man—a soldier of proven worth and ability. “I bear no personal grudge against Lord Raglan, Colonel,” he said quietly. “He was the soul of courtesy in his dealings with me and, at the time, I was convinced that the action he took in my case went against his own inclinations. It was dictated from above and he had no choice in the matter. Within the bounds imposed on him, he treated me generously. Indeed . . .” He fell silent, uncertain of how much he could say, even now and even to Colonel Beatson. He trusted the colonel implicitly but, until now, he had never spoken to anyone of his interview at the Horse Guards. The keeping of his own counsel had become second nature to him and the habit of years was not easily broken. At last he said, “Sir, you have asked me to give you my impression of his lordship and this, I confess, I do not find easy to do. I was labouring under a sense of deep resentment during my interview which may cloud my judgment. I felt that the official attitude, which Lord Raglan expressed to me, was unjust and—”

  Colonel Beatson emitted a short laugh. “When,” he asked, still smiling a little, “does a soldier expect justice, Alex?”