On His Majesty's Service

‘Look,’ called Fairbrother, standing in the stirrups; ‘the reserve line’s high- tailing!’

They had turned about as one, then galloped for the crest. It was so uniformly done that Hervey wondered if it was by design, except that the support line now disintegrated, half of them following the reserve and the other taking shelter with the front rank in what had become a misshapen and hollow square.

‘I can scarce credit it,’ he said. ‘What a reputation these Cossacks must have.’

‘You would have charged just the same in India, I think,’ suggested Fairbrother, his telescope out again.

‘Perhaps it’s easier to execute than to watch,’ said Hervey drily, scarcely able to credit, too, that his sabre was yet undrawn. And what silent battle this was, with not a shot yet fired. ‘Your first taste of action, Mr Agar, and quiet as the grave.’

‘Sir.’

Hervey assumed the gun had canister loaded, waiting the moment – fifty yards. The Turks lowered their lances. Without artillery to make holes in the great steel-tipped hedge, the Cossacks would find it a deadly fence to take. What had induced the reserves to turn tail?

Fifty yards … forty … and still no fire. Hervey tried in vain to make out what the gunners did, his line of sight obscured.

But the Cossacks had no intention of taking the fence of steel. Just short of lance-contact they inclined left and right, tilting as they galloped the length of the line, taking advantage of their extra reach (the Turk lances three feet shorter) and the oblique attack. Sipahis fell here and there, but not a single Cossack.

‘And thus they test their mettle, it seems,’ said Hervey, not sure what to make of the Cossacks’ aversion to charging home, or the Turks’ to counter-charging.

Round to the rear they galloped, deftly picking off any sipahi who stood a foot proud of the man to left or right. ‘Tent-pegging,’ muttered Hervey to himself; ‘pure sport.’

But the game suddenly changed.

Fairbrother saw it first. ‘My God – look yonder!’

The crest was now topped by a line of red, as if a curtain had gone up – two hundred sipahis, perhaps more.

‘They don’t see them!’ gasped Hervey.

The tent-pegging continued.

‘No – they do. They’re breaking off. But they’ll never get away in time. Damned impetuous Cossacks! Come on!’

He put his mare into a gallop.

Fairbrother dug in his spurs after him. ‘What in God’s name are you doing? This ain’t your fight. Let ’em break off and run for it!’

But he would not. Hervey galloped for another hundred yards, pulled up hard by a dry stream bed a furlong in front of the skirmish, and looped his reins. He had not once looked behind to see who was with him; theirs was to be there. ‘Unship carbines and make ready!’

They did as they were told – seven men in extended line.

Fairbrother closed to his side and spoke quietly. ‘It’s not our affair, Hervey. Don’t hazard all in an unworthy scrap.’

‘If we stand by and the Cossacks are worsted, we’ll never be received by a single Russian again.’

Fairbrother said nothing. He would himself have taken that risk, but he did not have his friend’s obligations. For now, he was prepared to take a spear in the chest, but only because his friend was prepared to. He smiled at the contrariness of his own logic, and at what meagre price (to those who did not understand) he held his life.

They loaded afresh, having drawn the charges after stand-down. Corporal Acton’s hands were as nimble as a card-sharp’s, tamping the wadding before the other two dragoons had yet dropped in the ball. ‘Bite harder when you reload,’ he told them, sharp but encouragingly. ‘And don’t fret about spilling at the pan. It’s always a business loading astride: the best of ’orses never stand stock still.’

Even Johnson, sweat that he was, found Acton’s words welcome. As a rule he disliked NCOs, but it was strange how when there was trouble …

‘Volley or aimed shots?’ asked Fairbrother archly, seating the butt of his carbine on his off-foreleg.

Hervey took no notice, clipping back the swivel ramrod while trying hard to fathom what they could do to help.

Down the slope at a slow trot came the line of red, lances up.

Why not just charge? he wondered.

‘Do they suspect a trap, sir?’ asked Agar. Even to his novice eye the Turk advance looked feeble.

‘Perhaps they’ve felt a Cossack lance too often. That or they’re wary of what might be concealed behind our hill. But rarely have I seen such passivity.’

But the Cossacks too were leisured, peeling away from the fight as if it were a gen- khana.

He shook his head. ‘It won’t serve.’

But his dismay grew as he saw the esaul slip from the melee, like Reynard from the back of covert, and trot unheeded towards the cannon which the gunners had abandoned.

‘Great Gods, do you see, Fairbrother?’

‘I do. His folly knows no bounds.’

The esaul, with two others now, cast lassos around the barrel to begin hauling it away.

‘Madness!’ gasped Hervey. ‘What the deuce does he mean?’

‘Booty: it’s in the blood!’ sighed Fairbrother.

‘And blood’s what they’ll pay for it if those fellows charge.’

Yet still the mass of Turks was all confusion, and the line of red seemed content to let its steady advance drive off the Cossacks without clash of steel. None looked to save the cannon.

But to Hervey it was plain as day: the line of red, unchecked, would overtake the esaul and his lassoers. Couldn’t they see that – any of them? He could only marvel at the Cossacks’ sang froid – and despair equally of the sipahis’ lifelessness. This was not war.

And then abruptly, as if they woke from torpor, the flanks of the red line quickened pace, wheeling inwards in an envelopment that would catch the esaul and half the sotnia if they didn’t gallop clear at once.

‘Leave the damned gun and retire!’ spat Hervey. ‘What in the name of God …’

But there was nothing he could do except rage: if the rest of the Turks recovered and advanced too, the whole sotnia would be overwhelmed.

Still the esaul made slow way with the cannon (if only he had lassoed the trail instead of the barrel …).

‘Martyrs to their own folly, Hervey, but we can’t sit idly by,’ said Fairbrother, fretfully (and only too aware of his change of tune).

‘Yes, but I can’t see what—’

In the strangely quiet battle of the arme blanche – for not even a pistol had been fired – the cannon’s sudden discharge came as a monstrous thunderclap.

Hervey drove in his spurs instinctively. The others followed hard on his heels for the cannon. He jumped from the saddle. One Cossack lay dead, a bloody pulp; another writhed moaning, his knee smashed. The esaul staggered blindly, blood streaming down his face. His horse was dead; the others had bolted. Johnson reined his mount to a halt beside Hervey. Fairbrother jumped down to help get the esaul across Johnson’s saddle. Acton and the two dragoons covered them, Johnson holding the horses, leaving Agar alone to try to rescue the other Cossack. But he hadn’t the strength with one arm while holding the reins with the other. He leapt down. Acton saw and turned, leaning far out of the saddle to get a hand under the man’s shoulder. They just managed to haul him atop Agar’s prancing mare, and then Acton pulled Agar himself up.