Chapter LIII: The Fight in the Fog

In the comparative luxury of Colonel Carron's quarters, which were far beyond anything he could have got in the English camps, Jim pulled round rapidly. He was in the best of health, his wounds showed every intention of healing readily, and the Colonel saw to it that he lacked nothing.

He found himself, somewhat to his confusion, something of a lion there, and never lacked company anxious to discuss with him the details of that mad ride up the Valley of Death and back again.

His French visitors were unanimous in their grave disapproval and admiration; and Jack, whenever he could get away from his trenches for a chat with the invalid, reported the same feeling everywhere.

Jack himself had had a hand in the tussle with the enemy, the day after Jim's affair. But he came out of it untouched, and made light of it.

He reported Harben severely wounded, in the second charge when George Herapath was killed, and the body of the latter had been recovered and buried.

It was sad to think of old George gone right out like that. He had died bravely, hastening to the rescue of his fellows, and the boys hardly dared to think of the bitter sorrow at Knoyle and Wyvveloe when the news should get there. It would, they knew, bring right home to them all the dreadful possibilities of the war, as nothing else could have done. George gone, Ralph sorely wounded. Who would be the next to go?

Here, in the camps, with sudden death hurtling through the air night and day, and sickness still claiming more victims than all the whistling shells, they were getting somewhat case-hardened, and accustomed to sudden disappearances and vacant places. But, to the anxious scanners of the lists at home, each death in each small circle made all the other deaths seem more imminent, and weighted every heart with fresh fears.

The zigzags and trenches in which Jack held a proprietary interest were creeping nearer and nearer to the town, and he was well satisfied with the progress made. But on one other point he and his fellow Engineers were anything but content.

The right flank of their position, opposite the Inkerman cliffs and caves and very close to the road by which the Russian forces got in and out of the town, seemed to their experienced eyes but ill-defended and not incapable of assault from the lower ground. And such assault, if successful, must of necessity entail the most serious consequences on the Allies.

They spoke of the matter, harped on it, but nothing was done, save the erection of a small sand-bag battery on the slope of the hill, and no guns were mounted on it lest the sight of them should tempt the Russians to come up and take them; and so--that grim and deadly hand-to-hand struggle in the early morning fog, known as the Battle of Inkerman--which, for all who were in it, for ever stripped the fifth of November of its traditional glamour, and left in its place a blind, black horror--a nightmare struggle against overwhelming odds, which seemed as if it would never come to an end.

Oh, we won; we won of course--but, as we do win, at most dreadful cost which foresight might have saved.

Jack was in the midst of it. He had just come up from the front, soaked with rain and caked with mud, and was making a forlorn attempt at cold breakfast before lying down, when heavy firing, in the very place where they had all feared sooner or later to hear it, took him that way in haste to see what was up.

He could see nothing for the fog and rain, but a hail of shot and shell was coming from the heights across the valley and he bent and ran for the shelter of the sand-bag battery. And for many hours--and every hour an age--the sandbag battery was "absolute hell," as he told Jim that night, with a very sober face and no enthusiasm.

Endless hosts of gray-coats came surging up out of the fog, yelling like demons, and fighting with their bayonets as they had never fought before. They were slaughtered in heaps, but there always seemed just as many coming on, yelling and stabbing, and our men yelled and stabbed, and the piles of dead grew high.

But Jack saw very little. It was all a wild pandemonium of clashing steel and yells and groans and curses, with streaming rain above, swirling fog all round, and what felt like a ploughed field heaped with dead bodies below. He picked up a rifle and bayonet, and jabbed and smashed at the gray-coats with the rest.

Through the fog he could hear the same deadly sounds all round, but whether they were winning or losing, or indeed what was going on, he had not the slightest idea. All he knew was that hosts of Russians kept on coming up in front out of the fog, that they had to be stopped at any cost, and that, from the time it was lasting, the cost must be awful.

He stumbled inside the battery one time, after a bang on the head from a clubbed musket which made him sick and dizzy; and as he sat panting in a corner for a moment till his wits came back, he told Jim afterwards that he remembered wondering if he had died and this was hell; He had a flask in his pocket somewhere, and he tried to get it out, and found his left arm would not act, though he had felt nothing wrong with it till he sat down.

He was drenched with rain and sweat--and blood, though he did not know it at the time. He got out his flask with his right hand at last, and took a long pull at it and felt better. Blood out, and brandy in, made his bruised head feel light and airy. He picked up his heavy rifle and bayonet and staggered out to join the wild mêlée again--one hand was better than none where every hand was needed.

But he tumbled blindly down the slope and fell, and men trampled to and fro over his body till he felt all one big bruise. Then the grim dim struggle swayed off to one side for a moment, and he tried to crawl away.

A tall Russian--an officer by his sword--lunged down at him as he leaped past in the fog, but the point struck on his flask and the blow only rolled him over again, and the other had not time to repeat it.

And presently he crawled away up the hill, and got out of it all, and down the other side towards his own camp.

It was there his father found him, late in the afternoon, spent and bruised, and weak from loss of blood, and he went off at once and got a litter, and took him away to his own tent and set him down beside Jim. For the English doctors had their hands very much more than full, and Colonel Carron, rightly or wrongly, had much greater faith in the nursing arrangements of his adopted service than in those of the British camps and field hospitals.

When he came in at night, Jack was all bandaged up and as comfortable as could be expected, with bayonet wounds in his arm and shoulder, a badly bruised head, and a bodyful of contusions.

"I was just thanking my stars and you, sir, that I was here, and not shivering to pieces over yonder," he said gratefully.

And with reason. For the Colonel's tent was as cosy a little habitation as even the French camps could show. He had taken advantage of a slight hollow, and had had it deepened and the earth piled high like a rampart all round it, so that only its top showed above ground-level, and the keen night winds whistled over it with small effect. And inside was a cheerful little stove, and Tartar rugs, of small value perhaps, and of crude and glaring colour and design without doubt, but very homely to look at to boys who had grown accustomed to bare trodden earth. And for couches, instead of waterproof cloth and a couple of blankets spread on the ground, they had clever little bedsteads, consisting of a springy network of string inside an oblong wooden frame which rested on folding legs like a campstool.

"We certainly know how to do for ourselves better than you do. Have you had anything to eat?" asked the Colonel.

"Just had the best dinner we've had since--well, since we dined with you last, sir," said Jim, with great satisfaction. "I don't know what it was, but it was uncommonly good."

And Jack asked anxiously: "Have you any news for us, sir? We heard they were driven back. Are any of our people left?"

"A few; but your loss is very heavy. Ours also; but you bore the brunt of it over there where the work was hottest. They came up out of the town at us, just below here, while you were busy there, and they made a feint also just above Balaclava. It has been a hot day all round. I hope they'll give us time to breathe now."

"I wonder what lies that fellow Menchikoff will stuff into the Tsar this time," said Jim.

"He can hardly claim a victory, anyway," said his father, with a smile.

"I bet he will, sir."

"Did you hear anything as to casualties, sir?" asked Jack, whose mind could not get far away from that grim struggle in the fog.

"Only outstanding ones. Your loss in big men is terrible. Cathcart is dead, and Strangways----"

"Poor old Strangways!"

"A dear old chap!" echoed Jim.

----"and Goldie,--all killed. George Brown and Codrington and Bentinck wounded, and I believe Torrens and Buller and Adams also. Some of your regiments are almost without officers. Our most serious loss is de Lourmel, down in front here, repulsing the sortie. They estimate 15,000 Russians killed and wounded----"

"There seemed millions of them lying round that battery," said Jack.

"They reckon there were 8,000 English and 6,000 of our men in the fight, and between 50,000 and 60,000 Russians. So that every one of our men put at least one of theirs _hors de combat_--a remarkable performance indeed."

"I've been thinking, Jim," he said presently, "that a few days on the sea would set you up again quicker than anything else. What do you say?"

"I'd like it immensely, sir, if it could be managed. It's awfully good of you."

"You're creditable boys, you see, and I'm anxious not to lose either of you. I wonder how soon the medico would let you go, too, Jack?" And he looked at him with a practised eye. "Not for a week anyway, I expect."

"I feel as if I could sleep for a week, sir. It's so mighty comfortable here," he said drowsily.

"They've had such a stomachful to-day that I think they'll keep quiet for a time now. It was a great scheme and they did their best. It'll take them a little time to work up a new one. Well, we'll see about it to-morrow. You think you'll be able to sleep, Jack?"

"Sure, sir, when I get the chance. Jim's been talking ever since the doctor went."