Victors and Lords Read online

  “He is entitled to a hearing, surely? He is entitled to hope for an opportunity to vindicate himself”—Alex’s temper flared—” when he can do so, when he can prove that he’s right!”

  “Then least of all,” his senior stated calmly.

  “You really believe that? Oh come, sir, you cannot—it is taking too cynical a view.”

  “I believe what over thirty years of soldiering have taught me. You expected a hearing, you say—you were prepared to suffer trial by court martial, so that you might justify yourself by bringing Lord Cardigan down with you—”

  Alex shook his head. “So that I might justify myself by telling the truth, sir,” he amended.

  “When that truth must have been irreparably damaging to a man of Cardigan’s importance! You were a trifle naïve, weren’t you?”

  “You think so, Colonel?” Alex returned stiffly.

  Beatson threw back his handsome, leonine head, with its mane of sun-bleached hair and laughed again. This time his laughter was loud and full-throated, holding genuine amusement. The Bashi-Bazouk horsemen at his back, hearing his guffaws, joined in them, without having the least idea of what had amused their leader. It was enough for them that he laughed. Alex remained somewhat resentfully silent, feeling affronted, until a muscular brown hand came out to grip his arm and Colonel Beatson said, his voice warm and sympathetic, “Alex, my dear fellow, I laugh that I may not weep. Once, long ago, I also cherished ambitions and a belief in justice. I am much happier now that I have abandoned my ambitions and no longer look for justice. You might do worse than follow my example.”

  “Do you not think I did, sir . . . also a long time ago?”

  “No, I do not think you did entirely—otherwise that old wound of yours would not have opened so easily when I probed it.” Beatson relaxed his grip on his companion’s arm. He went on gravely, “Consider the High Command of the British Expeditionary Force, which we are about to join, Alex. Their ages average more than sixty—the Duke of Cambridge is, of course, an exception, but then he has royal connections. Apart from His Royal Highness, Lord Lucan, at fifty-four is the youngest of the divisional commanders. None of them has been in action since Waterloo . . . few, in fact, have seen any action at all since they were subaltern officers. Sir Colin Campbell, who has a lifetime of fighting behind him and whose record you and I both know is second to none . . . Sir Colin has only been given a brigade, although he commanded a division in the Punjab. This, my dear Alex, is an army officered entirely by the aristocracy, commanded by men who have bought their promotion with money, not with experience of war, with but few exceptions.” He sighed. “And you have the Guards, the most aristocratic of all, with their iniquitous system of double ranks. A Guards captain ranks as a colonel in any mixed force . . . do you realize that?”

  “I do, sir, yes.”

  “Then of what use for a professional soldier to be ambitious? He has little chance in the British army.”

  “Is the Company’s system any better?” Alex countered. “Promotion by seniority means that our generals average nearer seventy than sixty, does it not? They are old men before they even command a regiment.”

  “But they are wise old men,” William Beatson argued. “Men who have learned their trade in battle, men who have charged against an enemy at the head of their troops. Not men who have only commanded troops on field days and exercises and at Royal Reviews . . . and who have left all routine training in the hands of their noncommissioned officers. I was shocked by the sheer inefficiency of many I met in Scutari, Alex. Commands in this force should have been given to some, at least, of the Company’s officers, who are skilled and conscientious soldiers. To John Jacob, for instance . . . he is one of the finest cavalry leaders in the world. Had he been in Lord Raglan’s place, I warrant the British army would not have remained idle in Constantinople and at Varna, leaving us in Silistria to fight off the Russians as best we might, unaided.”

  “Perhaps so, sir,” Alex conceded. “But—”

  Colonel Beatson ignored the interruption. He continued, his tone faintly satirical, “No doubt Lord Raglan was, once again, obeying the orders he had received from a higher source! Or, as Omar Pasha suggests, he may be influenced by the French. Marshal St Arnaud is said to have refused to send more than one French division to Varna, initially—despite his promise that Silistria was to be relieved with all possible despatch!” He turned in his saddle, eyeing Alex searchingly in the dim light. “Alex, my friend, I need a clue to Raglan’s character, so that I may know best how to make my approach to him, when the time comes. That was why I wanted you to tell me what, from your knowledge of him, was your opinion of our commander-in-chief—I had no more personal reason for asking, I do assure you. And although you may not have known him well, at least you have met him and you’ve served in the British army, which I have not. I simply wish to hear your impression of him, whether prejudiced or not.”

  “Then I shall do my best to enlighten you, sir,” Alex promised. He chose his words carefully, endeavouring to free them of all bias. “His lordship is a fine-looking man, possessed of much refinement and charm. He is always very popular with his staff, by all accounts . . . even I, meeting him in the circumstances I did, found him gracious and considerate. I felt that he sincerely regretted what he was compelled to do to me.Yet”—he frowned—“this is not easy to explain, sir. But had it not been for the fact that he was in uniform when he received me, I do not believe that I should have taken him for an officer of high military rank.”

  “For what would you have taken him, then?”

  “Oh . . . a politician, a diplomat, perhaps. Or even a priest. By this I am not implying any lack of military qualities but rather that his manner seemed to accord oddly with his high military rank.”

  “Pray continue,” Colonel Beatson encouraged. “You interest me very much indeed, Alex.”

  Alex hesitated, again searching for the right words. “Well, sir,” he said at last, “I felt that he was less a leader of men, less a disciplinarian, if you will, than a savior of men’s souls. Yet even this impression was a contradictory one, for he has a splendid reputation for courage in the field. It is said of him that after Waterloo, when his right arm was amputated, he called out very coolly that his arm was to be brought back to him, so that he might remove a ring he especially valued from one of the fingers.”

  The colonel smiled. “Yes, I have heard that story. But let us hope—for all our sakes and not least for the sake of British prestige—that he does not try to conduct this war according to the principles which governed the fighting at Waterloo! It will take more than an impenetrable British square to defeat the Russians.”

  “He will surely have advisers. Officers on his staff, who have had experience of modern warfare,” Alex suggested.

  “That is not what I have heard, I am afraid. Few of Raglan’s staff officers have even attended the senior department of the Royal Military College . . . and he has, as aides-de-camp, four of his own nephews, I believe. There is Sir George de Lacy Evans, of course, commanding the 2nd Division. He fought in Spain with great distinction but he must be . . . what? Almost seventy, I think, and—”

  “And you yourself, sir,” Alex put in. “You have been out here since the war began—you have been with Omar Pasha and General Cannon. I should imagine that Lord Raglan will consider any advice you can give him to be of inestimable value.”

  Colonel Beatson’s shoulders rose in an elaborate shrug beneath the folds of the gaudy native cloak he had draped about himself against the chill night air. The moon came from behind a cloud at that moment and it was possible to see his face quite clearly. Observing the sceptical expression on it, Alex was taken aback. “Do you doubt that, sir?” he asked incredulously.

  “I do, Alex. I’m going to Varna because I see it as my duty to offer my services to the British army. As I told you before, it remains to be seen whether my offer will be accepted.”

  “I cannot conceive that it will be refuse
d, Colonel.”

  “Can you not?” William Beatson laughed shortly. “We are not dealing with the Turks now, my friend. I am a mere brevet lieutenant-colonel in the East India Company’s Army of Bengal. I have no aristocratic connections, no influential friends—and my service has been exclusively with Oriental troops, save for a brief period in Spain. I am, in a word, a mercenary . . . a paid, professional soldier. I do not imagine that advice from me will be welcomed. To be honest, the most I hope from the British commander-in-chief is his acceptance of the offer I intend to make to him of the services, as scouts and skirmishers, of my Bashi-Bazouk brigands.” There was a gleam of indulgent pride in his eyes, as he glanced over his shoulder at the men who rode at his heels. “But look at them!”

  Alex did so, frowning. The Bashi-Bazouk horsemen sat their small, unclipped mounts like veterans but they rode in no particular order and their weapons were slung, in unsoldierly fashion, about their persons, with a view more to comfort and ease of handling than to uniformity. Forage bags and spare ammunition pouches hung untidily from the necks of their horses, and the men ate as they rode. When the pangs of hunger assailed them, they bit great chunks from the coarse black bread which formed their staple diet, together with grapes and olives, and a handful of onions to flavour the bread. In their tatterdemalion finery, with the exotically embroidered, tinsel-trimmed jackets and waistcoats and the voluminous shawls they wrapped about their heads or wound round their waists, the Bashi-Bazouks looked a motley crew of Oriental ruffians, fit only for ambush and highway robbery, which was their normal trade.

  A slow smile, in which understanding and affection were mingled, spread across William Beatson’s face, as he turned to Alex once more. “Alex,” he said softly, “these men are warriors—do not be deceived by their appearance. Not so long ago, they were cut-throat robbers, plying their trade in the Circassian mountains. If you spent your lifetime trying, you would never teach them to drill or train them to look or behave like conventional soldiers.

  Yet I confess I’ve never commanded troops I respected more. Each man is a rugged individualist, who fights for plunder for himself and for the love of fighting, but he will spend twenty hours in the saddle without complaint. He will ride all day and all night on a crust of bread and go into action at the end of it. If he flees from superior opposition, it will be to attack again, unexpectedly from the flank . . .not because he is afraid. He scorns death, for it is his daily companion and he laughs at fear, since he has known it from birth and must always fight for what he wants, because he is poor and owns nothing. But he is a magnificent fellow for all that, and he fights this war as a volunteer because, to him, it is a Holy War . . . he does not have to be pressed into service. By heaven, Lord Raglan will be guilty of a grave error if he refuses my Bashi-Bazouks! Yet I’m very much afraid that he will refuse them.”

  “Why should he, sir, if you vouch for them and are prepared to train and command them?”

  “I told you to look at them, Alex. “The colonel’s smile was amused. “Can you see them riding knee to knee with your immaculate Cherry Pickers?”

  “Well . . .” Alex smiled too, as he glanced behind him once more at the straggling troop. “I can see them making something of an impression on my late commanding officer, when he first sees them. And when he smells them! His lordship has a sensitive nose.”

  William Beatson chuckled beneath his breath and lapsed abruptly into silence.

  Dawn was grey in the sky when one of the scouts came galloping back to the main body. He spoke excitedly to his commander and Alex, roused from a doze, could only make out a fraction of what he said. He looked at Colonel Beatson in mute inquiry and saw that there was a wary brightness in his alert blue eyes. “What is it?” he asked, now fully awakened. “More Cossacks, sir?”

  The colonel shook his head. “Believe it or not, Alex, but we are about to rendezvous with the British army. My scout reports that a patrol of light cavalry is bivouacked in a hollow, a mile or so ahead of us. From his description of the uniforms, they are undoubtedly British and I shall be much surprised if the patrol does not include a troop from your old regiment. In fact”—his voice held a hint of mockery—“we may be about to make an impression on your late commanding officer, if this scout’s observations are correct.”

  “You mean that Cardigan is with them?” Alex stared at him, the colour draining from his cheeks. “It isn’t possible!”

  “I rather fancy it is,” Colonel Beatson replied evenly.

  He called his straggling band to attention and once again his eyes met Alex’s. “If, as I should imagine he must be, his lordship is on a reconnaissance, it is conceivable that we may be able to assist him. I propose therefore to offer my co-operation.” His eyes, still resting on Alex’s face, were narrowed and questioning. “Will you come with me, Alex, or would you prefer to ride on to Varna and await me there? I can let you have an escort, of course. And there is no necessity for you to offer Lord Cardigan any assistance, if you do not wish to do so. The choice is yours.”

  Alex’s hesitation was brief. He was far from anxious to meet Cardigan again but . . . this was war. “I’ll ride with you, sir,” he answered quietly,“and end this journey as I began it.” He took his place at the colonel’s side and the small party broke into a canter.

  They entered the British bivouac unchallenged and a startled sergeant of the 13th Light Dragoons, in his shirtsleeves, came over to inquire their business.

  “Take me to your commanding officer,” Colonel Beatson ordered. “I am Lieutenant-Colonel Beatson, of the Indian army, serving as a brigadier-general in the Turkish forces of Omar Pasha, which you will please inform him.”

  The sergeant surveyed him for a moment in open-mouthed astonishment and then, recovering himself, he saluted. “Very good, sir,” he assented. “If the colonel will follow me, I will request Lord Cardigan’s aide-de-camp to acquaint his lordship of your arrival.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  ALEX WALKED with Colonel Beatson through the newly awakened camp noticing, without surprise, that Lord Cardigan appeared to be the only occupant for whom shelter had been provided. There were no tents—officers and men had slept, wrapped in their cloaks, on the bare ground—but a small bower, constructed of brushwood, had been contrived, in order to ensure a measure of privacy for the brigade commander during the night. In this, apparently the Earl of Cardigan still slept.

  Feeling his gorge rise, Alex waited while the sergeant held a whispered conversation with one of the cloak-wrapped forms and, as he waited, he identified the uniforms of the men moving about the lines of tethered horses. There were, as nearly as he could make out, close on two hundred of them, drawn from the 13th Light Dragoons and the 8th and 11th Hussars. Their horses seemed to be in an extremely sorry state—two or three, tethered close by, were thin and out of condition, their coats staring and their backs rubbed raw. Another half dozen, being led to water, were obviously lame and did not appear able to summon the energy to rid themselves of the cloud of flies, which buzzed viciously about them, settling tormentingly upon their open sores. He watched them, shocked and puzzled, as Lord Cardigan’s aide, rousing himself reluctantly, murmured something in an apologetic voice and crossed the intervening space towards the brushwood shelter, inviting Colonel Beatson to accompany him.

  Alex was about to follow when an officer in the familiar blue and cherry red of his old regiment came striding towards him. The newcomer studied him for a long moment and then, quickening his pace, came up to him with hand outheld and a delighted smile on his good-looking young face.

  “Alex . . . it is Alex Sheridan, is it not? My dear fellow, it’s good to see you again after all these years!”

  “And you,” Alex exclaimed, gripping the proffered hand warmly. “And you, Phillip . . .” he was still holding Phillip Dunloy’s hand in his when the Earl of Cardigan, in shirt and overalls, emerged from his shelter. His eyes, bleary from sleep, slid over Alex’s face and then rested disdainfully on the massiv
e figure of William Beatson, still shrouded in the folds of the Bashi-Bazouk cloak, which completely concealed his uniform.

  “Well, sir?” he challenged thickly. “Who are you, eh? One of the Turkish generals, my aide-de-camp tells me. What can I do for you? Answer me, man . . . I haven’t all day. Or don’t you speak English, is that the trouble?”

  Colonel Beatson bowed with impeccable dignity. He made no move to shed the concealing cloak but he answered, his deep voice sounding quietly amused, “I speak English fluently enough for my purpose, Lord Cardigan. And this—since I am come here from Silistria during the night—is to give you warning of the close proximity of a large body of Russians on this side of the river. It occurred to me that, if you were on a reconnaissance for the British army, it might be information you would be likely to find useful when returning with your report to the commanderin-chief.”

  “It is not my habit to report troop movement I have not seen for myself,” Cardigan replied. “And, as it happens, I am on my way to Silistria now. However, since you’re here”—his tone was grudging—“perhaps I had better hear what you have to tell me. Come inside, where these infernal flies are less persistent. I can’t offer you any refreshment except a glass of brandy and a biscuit—we’ve sacrificed comfort for mobility and are carrying few provisions. But I imagine brandy will be acceptable, if you’ve ridden through the night.” He did not wait for Colonel Beatson’s assent to his invitation but, taking it for granted, led the way into his shelter. William Beatson flashed a wry glance at Alex and went inside after him.

  “Lord Cardigan has not changed,” Alex observed.

  “No. Did you imagine he would?” Phillip Dunloy’s mouth tightened below the line of his up-brushed cavalry moustache. “This reconnaissance, for example, has been madness. Neither men nor horses are fit but Cardigan has driven us without mercy. Already we’ve lost fifteen of our best horses and I don’t doubt that you’ll have noticed the condition the rest are in. But”—he took Alex’s arm, smiling at him affectionately—“come to my bivouac and let us see if we can find something more substantial than biscuits to offer you with your brandy. We must talk, Alex. It has been a long time since we had sight or sound of each other and I regretted it.”