On His Majesty's Service

He had not yet, though even with a telescope he sensed it would be difficult to spy a titmouse of any species in such cover. ‘Perhaps the apertures are on the other side, and the birds approach unseen. Would that not be Nature’s way?’

‘Let’s take a closer look,’ said Fairbrother, getting to his knees. ‘There must be eggs, or a brood.’

Hervey was happy to indulge his friend. The horses were quiet, it would not take too long to stalk a hundred yards, and in any case he thought it a fine thing to be able to tell Georgiana. ‘Allons.’

The friends stalked the diminutive bird with the stealth of the hunting cat. A full quarter of an hour – more – crouching, crawling, making like statues. But they discovered that Hervey was right: the entry to the nest was on the other side. Like good scouting dragoons, the birds approached from cover.

As they drew within whispering distance, the titmice became visible – all activity, to-ing and fro-ing, endlessly purposeful.

They lay watching, silent.

A breeze got up from the south-east. The leafy branches of the willow trembled, the nests swayed slightly, the birds remained active.

Then Hervey braced. ‘Voices,’ he breathed, gesturing.

At once the birds flew from Fairbrother’s mind. He was back in the wild country of the Zulu.

The voices were indistinct, but raised. No knowing how far off.

Hervey looked back at the horses – quiet, and pretty well concealed in the shadow of the oaks. ‘Let’s get to the top of this hill and see where they’re coming from.’

Fairbrother nodded.

They rose to a crouch and waded cautiously across the stream, keeping close to the willows for concealment. They climbed the hill easily – the earth was firm, with roots and branches enough to get a hand to – and made the lee of the crest noiselessly and with breath to spare.

The voices were now clear – and present.

They crept on hands and knees, and broached the crest crawling leopard-like to observe beyond.

Tents, pennants, caparisons – all the panoply of rank. A hundred yards away, no more.

The Vizier sat in an ivory chair (there was no mistaking him), officers attending – anxiously, it seemed to Hervey. A horseman was dismounting. He wore a red cloak despite the heat of the day. He took off his kalpak – the high-crowned hat of the country – and advanced with it in both hands held close to his chest as if in supplication.

The Vizier spoke. His words were indistinct, but it seemed he was giving leave to approach the throne.

The horseman now addressed him boldly. Hervey could catch none of it (how he wished Agar were with them). Except for three words, repeated by both men – the horseman with certainty, the Vizier with incredulity: ‘Bir schei yok.’

In vain Hervey looked at Fairbrother for enlightenment.

The Vizier flew into a rage, springing from his chair, gesturing at the horseman violently and shouting abuse.

The horseman stood his ground, protesting.

The Vizier raged on.

The horseman angrily flung off his cloak. The Vizier’s officers stepped forward to examine it.

‘What do they do? What is it?’ whispered Hervey.

Fairbrother took up his telescope. ‘It looks as if he’s showing that it’s shot through.’

Hervey’s brow furrowed; what did it signify?

Fairbrother had no idea either.

Only remember ‘Bir schei yok’. They would know what it meant at Yeni Bazar. But for the moment they could only watch and wait – if only they could dare.

And then as suddenly as he had become enraged, the Vizier sank back into his chair, head lowered. His officers looked at him, as if waiting on his decision. He rose again and gestured that he was finished with the matter. He laid a hand on the man’s shoulder and dismissed him with equability, then turned; and both Hervey and Fairbrother heard the word quite distinctly – ‘Shumla.’

Officers began hurrying in all directions, horses were brought, tents were taken down. Had it not been for the rage and despondency, they might have thought the Vizier was about to lead his army through the breaches. But the air was of defeat, not victory – and the word ‘Shumla’ could mean only a retrograde movement?

‘The siege is abandoned,’ whispered Hervey. ‘What else?’

It must have been the message the horseman brought – news, perhaps, of the approach of the Russians. Or that the walls withstood the fire? What did it matter; the Turks were beginning the movement that Diebitsch wished.

Hervey inclined his head to signal that they themselves should withdraw.

Fairbrother nodded thankfully.

They scrambled back down the hill, scarcely believing the Vizier’s camp could be so careless of intruders. But then, why should there have been cause to think otherwise? What trespassers could there be here in the wooded fore-hills of the Balkan, the distant rampart of Constantinople?

At the bottom they froze. Before them were Turks, looking over the horses.

How many?

Hervey could see three. He looked at Fairbrother, and mouthed silently, ‘Attack?’

What was the alternative? Fairbrother nodded.

Hervey motioned to him to cross the stream and cover him from a flank while he crossed closer to the horses. That way they might confuse the Turks and make them think they were more. It ought to be done with the sword – they didn’t need the Vizier’s camp alerting, even while it was being struck – but would they oblige?

No time to waste. Hervey drew his sabre silently, took a pistol from his belt (Fairbrother held one in each hand) and began edging along the bank while his friend slipped into the stream, the sudden surge of birdsong welcome ally.

There were three Turks, and a fourth holding their horses fifty yards downstream. Would he take off at the sound of a fight and alert the camp?

Three Turks. He would have surprise for an instant, but three of them … It was risking too much, was it not? Pistols and be done with it. He had his Deringer too …

The Turks were now laughing. No time to find out why – attack now! But which of them first – middle, risking both flanks, or left, leaving two together? Take the most brutish-looking – middle.

Three plashy strides, up onto the bank and into them.

They turn as one, but too late.

‘Give point’ to the chest.

The middle man falls.

‘Cut five’ to the left.

The Turk screams, his face slashed through.

The third slices with his scimitar.

Hervey guards, but no time to lock his arm. His sabre breaks.

The Turk, off-balance, cuts upwards, late.

Hervey swings his left arm round, fires.

Nothing.

Fairbrother’s pistol goes off like a cannon.

The Turk falls as his scimitar touches Hervey’s tunic.

A momentary glance of gratitude, and Fairbrother’s relief in return.

But the fourth Turk is already astride and away.

They tighten girths, spring to the saddle and ride for Yeni Bazar scarcely drawing bit.

XV

AN OFFICER’S WORD