Victors and Lords Read online

  “I shall find it,” Alex promised. He took his horse from the man who had brought it for him and again offered Phillip his hand. “You may rest assured that I will do everything in my power to carry out your instructions, Phillip. And”—he said it after only the briefest hesitation “to serve Charlotte as best I may, until her husband returns.”

  “I am deeply grateful to you, Alex.” Phillip Dunloy wrung his hand and then stood aside to allow him to mount, his eyes holding an appreciative gleam as he looked at the magnificent Arab. “That’s a fine piece of horseflesh you have there, indeed it is. Well . . . au revoir, then. And God go with you.”

  “With you also, Phillip. I shall look for you in Varna.”Alex set spurs to his horse.

  Colonel Beatson fixed him with a shrewdly speculative gaze when he rejoined their troop but he said nothing, simply gave the signal to move off to his waiting horsemen. As they clattered up a rocky incline beyond the bivouac, Lord Cardigan reappeared to stand, hand on hip, at the entrance to his shelter, watching them. He was immaculately uniformed now, an arrogant and striking figure in his gold frogged Hussar jacket and the tight fitting cherry coloured overalls that encased his well shaped legs. He did not look his age, Alex thought, nor had he altered a great deal since the last time they had met. The cold blue eyes still held the remembered disdain that they had always held and, as they had done so often in the past, seemed to look through him, as if he did not exist.

  They looked through Colonel Beatson, too, and the Bashi- Bazouk troop . . .Lord Cardigan did not pay them the tribute of a parting salute. He affected neither to see nor to hear their departure but stood smiling to himself, his long, aristocratic nose in the air and the breeze ruffling the flowing, reddish-brown whiskers which adorned his florid but still handsome face. It was as if his thoughts afforded him reason for private mirth or even for self-congratulation, although it was evident that, whatever they were, he did not intend to share them.

  William Beatson glanced back at him over his shoulder and said with some exasperation, “Alex, I do not in the least blame you for seeking satisfaction from that man . . . whatever the Articles of War lay down. I’d have been tempted to call him out myself, if I’d been compelled to spend much longer in his company. His arrogance is beyond belief.”

  Alex answered, with restraint, “I am glad that you had the opportunity to meet and judge his lordship for yourself, sir.”

  “I could have done without it,” the colonel confessed. “However”—he turned in his saddle to face his companion—“I did manage to learn one thing from Cardigan that may well prove useful. But if we are to make use of it, Alex, it may mean delaying your arrival in Varna by a day or so. Would you have any objection to that?”

  There was a coldness in Alex’s heart but it vanished and he shook his head decisively. Of what use to hurry to Varna now? Charlotte was married and he had no right even to want to see her in her husband’s absence, no hope that she would want to see him. He would keep his promise to Phillip, of course, but a few days’delay could scarcely matter and, selfishly he was aware, he would welcome it. Although there was Emmy—that strange, headstrong, elusive child of whom, in the old days, he had been very fond. He would enjoy meeting Emmy again . . . .

  Seeing the headshake, Colonel Beatson laid a hand on his knee. “Cardigan told me,” he stated gravely,“that two British naval gunboats have been despatched up the Danube by Admiral Dun-das. They are manned by thirty seamen from H.M.S. Britannia, all of them volunteers, and they have a platoon of sappers on board, with bridging equipment. The original intention was, I gather, to send them to our assistance at Silistria.”

  “For which purpose they are too late,” Alex suggested dryly.

  “True, my friend. But it occurs to me that General Cannon could use them to some advantage, if they could be directed to him. And they should, if Cardigan’s estimate of their position is accurate, be less than twenty miles north of us now. If you were to retrace your steps to the river and follow it upstream, you might well be able to intercept them.”

  “You mean, sir”—Alex looked at him with narrowing eyes—“that I should intercept and redirect them to General Cannon’s support, when he endeavors to cross the river from Rustchuk to Guirgevo?”

  Beatson nodded. “Exactly. The sappers have bridging equipment with them and Cannon and Ogilvy have only small boats. A pontoon bridge, flung across the river by night, could bring Hussein Pasha’s main force into the attack . . . instead of a few thousand men, a whole army. It bears thinking about, does it not, Alex?”

  “It does, Colonel, if the gunboats are able to reach Rustchuk in time.” Alex was suddenly excited. “It does indeed!”

  “They might, if you acquaint them with what is afoot,” the colonel asserted. “Rustchuk is barely fifty miles from Silistria overland but Cannon told us that the earliest he could commence his attack would be the night of the seventh. You will have to ride hard and not draw rein until you come up with the gunboats. That is why I am proposing that you should go, taking Arif, who knows the country well, and perhaps three or four others, with good horses. You can leave the baggage with us. And you may, it goes without saying, rely on me to carry out any commissions on your behalf in Varna.” He sighed, with more than a hint of regret. “I must go on, since it is imperative that I talk with Lord Raglan as soon as possible. If he does decide to accept the offer of a Bashi-Bazouk brigade, I shall need time to select and train the best men I have available.”

  “Yes, sir, of course,” Alex agreed readily. “Obviously I am the one to go and I’ll do so gladly . . . .” A heavy eagerness now possessed him at the realization of what, if it were successfully accomplished, his interception of the two British gunboats might mean.

  The town of Guirgevo, on the Wallacian side of the Danube, had been captured during the initial Russian advance and was strongly held. Facing it, across the river, was a Turkish army under Hussein Pasha which was based on Rustchuk and General Cannon, with a number of British and Indian army volunteers from Silistria, had planned an attack on the Russians with a small, picked force, relying on surprise and daring to carry it through. They were aware that, with only rowing boats to ferry them across, very few troops could be brought into action and these only under cover of darkness. But with a bridge across the river, there would be nothing to prevent Hussein Pasha from throwing in his whole army, once a bridgehead had been established on the far bank. In fact, he might well be shamed into doing so and, with Guirgevo restored to Turkish hands, the Russians would be compelled to withdraw from the Danube, the threat of invasion of the Danube provinces considerably lessened and perhaps even averted.

  Of more importance to him personally however, Alex thought, was the fact that he might be able to send aid to the gallant Cannon and those other officers of his own service, Lieutenants Arnold, Hinde and Bullard, at a time when they might need it very badly. It had been they who, with Colonel Ogilvy, Cannon’s British aide, and Bent and Meynell of the 75th had planned to undertake the hazardous attack. They had received very lukewarm encouragement from the Turks. Hussein Pasha was known to consider it a forlorn hope and the Danube an impassable obstacle to the passage of the main body of his troops. With close on a hundred thousand men under his command, he had made no attempt to do battle with the Russians in Guirgevo and General Cannon had gone to Rustchuk with an avowed intention of forcing the Turkish commander into action. Or, as he himself had put it, of “perishing in the attempt.”

  Alex smiled grimly to himself, recalling these words. The Turks fought bravely enough but they were, at times, unheroically led. While he had had nothing but admiration for the conduct of Mussa Pasha, who had died in the defense of Silistria, there had been an occasion during the siege when James Butler had actually had to drag a high-ranking Turkish officer from hiding and, at the height of a battle, deliver him to his post by propelling him there with the toe of his boot. Mussa Pasha and his mulatto second in command, Hussein Bey, had fought with great person
al heroism. But, had it not been for the courage and inspired leadership of poor young Butler and the support given him by his fellow Indian army volunteers, Nasmyth and Bullard, Silistria must long since have yielded . . . a fact which Omar Pasha had recently acknowledged, when paying public tribute at Butler’s graveside.

  In the light of this, he found himself wondering what success General Cannon had met with, as he discussed a possible plan of action with Colonel Beatson. The black-browed Arif, acquainted with his new orders, grinned with savage pleasure, and went to choose the men and horses to accompany them on their mission. He returned with four of his compatriots a few minutes later and, still grinning his wolfish grin, announced their readiness for departure.

  On the point of taking leave of his commander, Alex wondered whether or not to tell him what Phillip had said concerning Lord Raglan’s probable reaction to the offer of a Bashi-Bazouk brigade to augment the British Cavalry Division. He finally decided against it—Phillip, like Lord Cardigan, might conceivably be prejudiced. But, as they shook hands, William Beatson promised to recommend him for a staff appointment when he saw the British commander-in-chief and Alex asked him whether, in addition, he could find time to call at a house in the Street of the Silversmiths in Varna.

  “Phillip Dunloy’s two sisters are staying there, sir,” he explained. “He asked me to see if there were any way in which I could be of service to them. Phillip is anxious on their behalf, because they are in Varna without official sanction.”

  Once again, he was conscious of the older man’s gaze, fixed thoughtfully on his face, as if seeking some clue to his feelings but this time he was prepared for it and at pains to give nothing away. William Beatson appeared satisfied as the result of his scrutiny and, having agreed very willingly to call on Phillip’s sisters at the first opportunity, he bade Alex not to delay.

  “You have a long ride ahead of you. The best of luck, Alex and . . . take care of yourself. I shall await you at Lord Raglan’s headquarters. Inquire for me there when you arrive.”

  “I will, sir. A pleasant journey and success to your mission.” Alex saluted and, with the Bashi-Bazouks jogging at his heels, set off in the direction from which, earlier that morning, they had come.

  Reaching a valley with a small stream flowing through it, Arif raised a brown hand and announced that if they followed the valley, it would take them back to the river by a less circuitous route than the one they had previously followed. The rising sun was warm in their faces as they rode back towards the Danube. It sank and the moon rose before their quest was ended. Then Alex heard the rhythmic chug of paddles and the splashings of churned-up water and, looking down from the bridle-path on which he rode, glimpsed the first of the gunboats some distance ahead at a bend in the river.

  Thankfully he urged his flagging horse in pursuit.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE LONG, HOT DAY was drawing to a close in Varna but the going down of the sun brought little relief to the inhabitants of the airless Bulgarian town—least of all to those recent arrivals who had not as yet become accustomed to its climate.

  Emma O’Shaughnessy, her own toilette completed as well as it could be in their present cramped quarters, was aware of a feeling of intense depression as she stood waiting for her stepsister, Charlotte Cassell, to finish dressing. They had both been invited to a soirée, given by the French General Canrobert, by a member of his staff who—with true Gallic gallantry—had chosen to ignore their lack of official status and had insisted on their accepting his general’s invitation.

  “Mais voyez vous, mesdames,” he had pleaded, “it is not right that two such charming ladies should remain closeted like nuns, simply because the milord Lucan has decreed that they should not be here. I should be failing in my duty, to France and to my génèral, were I not to urge you to grace his reception with your presence . . . .”

  Emmy sighed. Tired and oppressed by the heat, she was unable to view the prospect of attending a crowded reception with anything like enthusiasm at this moment. And, as she surveyed her image in the small, cracked mirror which was all the room boasted, her depression grew. Her gown had suffered in transit and looked decidedly shabby; her face, small and elfin and always inclined to pallor, was white and over-thin. Her dark eyes, which were her best feature, seemed far too large for their setting, she thought unhappily—an effect that was heightened by the smudged shadows beneath them, caused by anxiety and lack of sleep. Yet Charlotte, who had suffered the same privations as she had and who was three years older, still contrived to look beautiful and would, she knew, soon emerge from her bedroom elegantly gowned and apparently radiant, to attract admiring glances and extravagant compliments from General Canrobert’s susceptible staff officers.

  It was grossly unfair, Emmy told herself, for none of the Frenchmen who ardently kissed her hand would suspect that Charlotte had not wanted to come here and that, since her arrival, she had done nothing but complain and wish that she were still in Constantinople . . . .

  Disconsolately, Emmy crossed to the window and stood with her face pressed against its steamy glass and gazed at the scene before her. The Street of the Silversmiths was dirty and uninviting, scarred by the wheel tracks of the endless procession of transport wagons which had passed along it since the disembarkation of the British Expeditionary Force. Its centre formed a drain that, as far as she could make out, was never cleaned and from which the stench—even from behind closed windows—was unbelievably nauseating. The street was deserted now, save for a few emaciated mongrel dogs, engaged in the seemingly hopeless search for some means of keeping themselves from starvation, and an ancient peasant woman who squatted, wrapped in a shawl, sleeping close to the doorway, oblivious to the proximity of the snarling dogs.

  It was typical, Emmy reflected, of most of the streets in Varna. The little town, so picturesquely situated in a lovely, undulating valley at the mouth of the River Dwina, had presented an enchanting appearance from the packed lower-deck of the troopship in which she and Charlotte, in conditions of indescribable discomfort, had sailed across the Black Sea from Scutari. She had been wild with impatience to go ashore, she remembered, eager to explore the fine castle commanding the heights and to wander, breathing God’s pure fresh air once more, among the vineyards and orchards by which the town was surrounded. But, alas . . . on closer inspection, Varna had proved much less enchanting than its distant vista had led her to hope it would be.

  It was primitive and insanitary, the town itself consisting of two-story wooden houses and frequently half-hidden by a damp pall of fog, which rose from the steaming ground on which it was built. The people were listless and unfriendly and not at all disposed to welcome the British soldiers as they poured, in their thousands, from the heavily laden ships, demanding food and shelter and transport. They were willing enough to supply the latter, at a price, but food was in short supply and the houses they were prepared to vacate filthy and vermin-infested, so that even the highest ranking officers preferred to live under canvas with their men.

  All water had to be carried from wells and, when it arrived was undrinkable and, indeed, scarcely fit even for washing purposes, although it cost almost as much as wine. Such necessities as milk, butter and eggs were jealously hoarded and could only be obtained by means of exorbitant payments, after hours of wearisome bargaining.

  Phillip had done his best for them, Emmy thought; it was not his fault that she and Charlotte were wretchedly uncomfortable in the tiny, barely furnished hovel he had rented for them. He had contrived to engage servants also but the two slovenly women and the sullen, unprepossessing man—the husband of one of them—were untrained and spoke no English. Although highly paid for their services, they seemed disinclined to render these, once Phillip had gone and could no longer coax or coerce them into doing so. They simply vanished where there was work to be done, and turned deaf ears and unrepentant faces to pleas and reproaches alike.

  Emmy drew a long, exasperated breath, closing her eyes to th
e glare from outside and the unwelcomed sight of the mangy, half-starved dogs roving the gutters. She wished that Phillip had not had to leave them and then, her conscience pricking her, that he had not been so angry with them, because they had followed him to Varna without permission. His anger was justified, she knew . . . it had been wrong to come, a mistake she was beginning bitterly to regret and one Charlotte had regretted from the moment they had set foot on shore. The mistake had been her own, of course, since the idea had been hers in the first place, and Charlotte had always been opposed to it but she had thought . . . Emmy bit her lower lip fiercely, feeling it quiver. From the room next door, she heard Charlotte’s voice, raised in futile reproof, “Oh, no, Maria . . . not like that, please!” and the guttural, unintelligible reply from the younger of the two peasant women pressed, so unwilling, into their service. Maria, she knew from experience, was hopelessly clumsy and she sighed again, hearing the petulant weariness in her stepsister’s voice and aware of what it portended.

  She had always loved and admired Charlotte, always looked up to her since she had been a small child. but there were times when Charlotte’s inability to adapt herself to the inevitable hardships of campaigning became unbearably trying and taxed her patience to its limit. Had Sophie accompanied her, instead of Charlotte, which had been the original plan, she would, Emmy was certain, have been able to bear the discomfort and the misery without a qualm. She and Sophie would happily have followed the example set by Lady Errol and Mrs Duberly and lived, as they were doing, in a tent—but Charlotte had flatly refused this suggestion and Phillip, with unexpected firmness, had also refused to hear of it.