On His Majesty's Service

for us to climb,’ he said, nodding to the closer right flank, half a mile perhaps. ‘I imagine Pahlen has them picketed. A few Cossacks would flush out any game.’ Whether there were any Cossacks on the heights he did not know; but why would there not be?

‘Like being in a piss-pot,’ muttered Corporal Acton.

A quarter of an hour later, when they had gone a mile and a half, crossing two streams and half a dozen dry courses at right angles to the line of advance, they came at last on the objective, halting along the top of an incline in full view of the Turks three-quarters of a mile ahead.

Corporal Acton whistled beneath his breath.

It was difficult to estimate the number, not least because the sun was in their eyes. Hervey swept the line with his telescope. It was a good mile, square after square, and cavalry beyond. To be disposed thus he reckoned they must be the spearhead of a complete corps, ten thousand. How many guns would that mean? A corps would have, what, sixty, seventy? He could see twenty, perhaps, the lighter pieces.

‘A cork in the bottle. Can it be drawn out, or does it have to be driven in?’

‘Does it have to be removed at all?’ asked Fairbrother.

‘Diebitsch won’t just let them sit there.’

‘“O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out/ Against the wrackful siege of battering days …”’

‘Very apt,’ said Hervey, searching the slopes on either flank of the Turk line. ‘Shakespeare?’

‘Who else?’

‘Uncommon apt, indeed. The Turk has no time, but Diebitsch disdains taking advantage of his.’

‘Just so.’

‘Well, we must see. That’s our business, after all.’

Fairbrother made a muted ‘Hah!’, and frowned. ‘We are resuming our status of indifference, then?’

Hervey ignored the jibe. ‘I suppose Ostroschenko will now try to drive them in to force the Vizier’s hand, but there’s scarcely space for artful tactics. Mr Agar?’

Agar edged his mare forward. ‘Sir?’

‘How might you discern the Vizier’s intention here? Without excess of time.’

He had already been considering it. ‘I was wondering, does he tempt us to attack him, and in turn to counter-attack us? My preference would be to scout rather than fight. If we got into the cover of the trees on this flank, we’d be able to work around the advance guard and see what troops stood ready in reserve.’

‘And what if tempting us were his scheme?’

‘Then I do not see what alternative there would be to waiting on his move. Unless the whole of the Russian force were to be brought forward to attack first. And that would be a perilous affair for both sides in so confined a space.’

Hervey shook his head. ‘I think it the best rule never to let the enemy alone.’

The trumpet sounded ‘walk-march’ again.

Hervey raised his eyebrows. ‘But I see there is yet another course of action.’

What it might be, though, was not yet apparent. They surely did not intend charging? He couldn’t conceive of any outcome but ruin.

Even at a walk it was a continuous effort to maintain the dressing, and a dry channel two feet deep was soon disordering the front rank, bringing yet another blistering torrent of ‘advice’ from the NCOs.

On they struggled.

And then a great thunderclap of artillery far over on the left flank stunned all. Even Hervey started.

All eyes turned left: heavy case-shot at four hundred yards, from a battery hitherto concealed, rocked the advancing columns of Ostroschenko’s infantry – a mile away and more, but still the screams carried. And then the Turks sprang their terrible ambush – sipahis hurtling down the crags, men and horses tumbling headlong, but crashing like a great wave into the exposed flank of Ostroschenko’s columns desperately trying to form square.

‘Poor devils,’ groaned Hervey, looking right to see what danger faced them.

Seconds later it was the same: down a near-vertical cliff plunged the Turk horse.

Colonel Voinov’s instinct was to haul away and re-form. ‘Columns!’

Too late.

Voinov changed his mind. ‘Charge!’

It was a desperate rush at a great host of lances. But surprise counted. The Turks scattered like chaff in a sudden gust of wind. Not a point touched a single hussar; some of the sipahis even took cuts from the faster sabres.

Hervey had not even lofted his when they pulled up. ‘That was fortune smiling,’ he rasped, shaking his head in disbelief. ‘We’d better retire and re-form, or else if they ever see we’re unsupported they’ll roll us up like a damned carpet!’

Fairbrother had already seen – horse and infantry threatening to lap round their other flank. ‘Quickly, Hervey!’

The squadrons turned as best they could – no trumpets, only shouting – trying to regain order as they bustled rear. It was no field-day drill, to be sure.

They began galloping, hastened now by the re-emboldened Turks.

Hervey despaired. They must rally soon, or else it would be rout.

Another two hundred yards – a dry course on which to form: ‘Hold hard!’ he growled, as if any would heed, let alone hear.

Besides, Voinov knew his job. The Irkutzk turned about, rough but ready.

‘Look, sir!’ called Agar.

Five hundred yards left, a phalanx of Turk infantry had detached the Murom Regiment from the rest of the line. They were frantically forming square, surrounded on three sides already, and losing order. Muskets from another phalanx swarmed on them like angry wasps. It would be a pure killing match.

‘My God, where did they come from? Brace yourself, Agar. They’re lost.’

Where were the supports? But all of Ostroschenko’s cavalry were fighting to break clean or else retiring apace. The Irkutzk couldn’t wheel and charge or they’d open a flank to the sipahis.

He shook his head. This was not well-handled. Turk numbers were beginning to tell. Some of the gunners were bravely serving their pieces, but they too couldn’t stand without supports. Where was Ostroschenko?

‘There’s the general, sir,’ called Acton, pointing to the middle of the field.

Hervey saw: he, too, was in a perilous place. ‘He makes a stand! Does Voinov not see him?’

‘Look, sir, they’re breaking away!’ shouted Agar excitedly.

Hervey looked again. Men were streaming from the crumbling Murom square. Unchecked and they would throw away their muskets and be cut down.

‘We’ve got to rally them, Fairbrother. No one else will.’

He didn’t wait for opinion. He took off at a gallop, calling as he went. ‘Mr Agar, when I pull up, remain in the saddle with the others to bar the way. Fairbrother, we shall dismount. They’ll never rally otherwise.’

Fairbrother was past protest. Death by Turk lance or Russian bayonet – what did it matter?

‘Flats of the sword, no pistols.’

The noise was great, and the smoke increasing. A hundred yards, a dry channel to break their flight: that’s where he’d rally them.

‘Here!’ He drew hard to the halt and sprang down, Acton taking the reins.

Cornet Agar motioned Brayshaw and Green to stand left as Acton turned in on the right.

The fugitives from the Murom Regiment came on like hounds in full cry. Hervey raised his sabre and began hallooing.

The first of them took the dry course in their stride. Acton ran in obliquely, leading Hervey’s gelding, blocking. Several gave up, fell exhausted, though some got past. Agar sent two sprawling with the flat of his sabre. They looked up at him strangely grateful. Another jabbed with his bayonet. Acton sprang from the saddle cursing but still holding both sets of reins and felled him deftly with a swipe in the small of the back. He grabbed the man’s tunic straps and hauled him to his feet, shouting the while, turning him round and pushing him back towards the dry