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FOLLOW ME TO GLORY
a novel
By Will Hutchison Infinity Publishing
Copyright © 2006 Will Hutchison
All right reserved. ISBN: 978-0-7414-3560-6
Chapter One
Ian felt the shuddering blows strike his horses' chest a tick after the two not-too-distant musket cracks. He heard the awful thwacking sounds as the lead balls hit flesh. The gallant animal collapsed on his left side, pulling Ian down with it, into the muddy ground below, pinning his left leg under hundreds of pounds of horse and a tangle of saddle and stirrups.
The pain was knife-sharp, deep, and unbending. Bloody hell, he thought, if it's broken, I'm a dead man. He struggled to free himself from the numbing weight, which pressed the leather straps and sharp brass buckles of the harness into his leg.
Ian stretched his neck to look over the dead horse's back, through the mist and rain, saw them coming at him, fast. There were six riders thundering down, Cossacks by their long cherkeska coats, cartridge loops across the chest, and grey fur caps. Some carried long deadly lances pointed his way, others brandished large curved swords. Ian knew he hadn't long to live unless a miracle happened, knew these fearsome warriors would show little mercy.
The miracle was standing over him, preposterous in its elegance. He looked up and saw his friend, Captain Lewis Nolan, calmly andstylishly astride his mount, gazing with haughty distaste at the oncoming attackers.
Ian shouted, "Lewis, for God's sake give me some help here. I'm a bit stuck-in."
"A moment, Ian," Nolan said, deliberately removing his huge Deane Adams revolver from its holster. He carefully aimed at the charging, screaming Cossacks. Since it was not necessary to cock this revolver, he slowly pulled the trigger. The pistol bounced abruptly in his hand, firing with a distinctly loud bark.
Ian stretched his neck again, saw the lead Russian's horse crumble to its front knees, the rider flying over its head, arms flailing wide apart, as though he'd grown wings. He struck the ground face first, slid grotesquely in the mud and decay of the forest floor, then lay motionless.
The Cossack behind him, riding at full gallop, crashed into the stumbling lead horse. The second Cossack was thrown off his mount sideways, and trampled by the oncoming horsemen. Two were on the ground with one shot. Ian was amazed. Nolan looked decidedly amused by it all.
They were closer now, the other four, still coming. Ian could see their distorted faces. If he didn't free himself, he'd risk capture and an unpleasant death.
Ian crawled, clawed, and kicked his way clear. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the fierce pain in his leg, and looked up again at the stoic Nolan sitting his mount almost casually. Ian said, as calmly as he could manage, "Lewis, I should think it time to leave, or we might be spending the rest of this war eating borscht in some filthy, rat-infested Ruskie prison."
Nolan would have none of it. Without looking at Ian he replied, "Please, Ian, you're spoiling my sport." With that, he carefully placed the Adams' long barrel in the crook of his left arm and aimed. The pistol bucked again, his horse moving ever so slightly at the piercing crack of the revolver, Nolan in complete control of weapon and animal. Ian saw a small black hole appear in the forehead of the closest Cossack, and watched as the dead Russian, feet rising in the air, rolled off the back of his horse.
Three were down now, three angry charging Russians left. The downed Cossacks were lancers. The three getting dangerously close were circling swords above their heads, screeching like banshees.
Ian jerked out his own smaller American Colt revolver, wiping off the mud as best he could with a braided tab from his once blue, now ugly, wet-brown frock coat. The pistol remained by his side as he stared at the closing Cossacks. It's been a short war, Ian thought, with surprising calm.
Nolan said, "I say, Ian, shall we leave here with a bit of dignity?" He grabbed Ian's arm, swung him onto the back of the saddle, and spurred away with ease. He almost lost Ian as he pulled effortlessly left, then right, in an agile zigzag pattern.
Ian was barely able to stick his pistol in his belt, as he hung on for his life. Nolan wove the mount skilfully around scrub bushes, trees, and large boulders. He was a magnificent horseman, but with two riders the borrowed mount was tiring. Ian looked back, saw the Cossacks gaining, heard the pounding of hooves getting closer.
Ian's world seemed to move more slowly, as he realized the danger approaching. His mind flickered back to their landing, which had been a farce. The combined French and British armada boasted a fighting muscle of eight triple-decked ships of the line, twenty-two double-decked battleships, seven frigates, and thirty of the newer steam and paddle-driven warships. All of these were bristling with naval guns of every size. In addition, there were several hundred sail and steam transports, like so many lazy fat whales, ready to disgorge their men and supplies onto the hostile shore.
On the British side it was a mismanaged mess, the beach area a circus of misdirected supplies. Commissary and quartermaster personnel had been running around, bumping into each other. Soldiers wandered about searching for their companies, trying to form up.
Lord Raglan wanted a reconnaissance, and Lord Raglan would have what he wanted. Wishing to know if there were Russian infantry to their front, he'd ordered Captains Ian Carlyle and Lewis Nolan of his staff to find out. They'd just managed to stagger onto the beach south of Eupatoria, along the Crimean Peninsula, when His Lordship gave the order.
Nolan's horses were not yet landed, and Ian's were unsaddled. He and Nolan quickly borrowed two saddled cavalry mounts from a young, confused 11th Hussars cornet, and were off, moving inland down a dirt path to get His Lordship's answers.
Now one of those borrowed horses was dead, the other exhausted, and the two young officers were in grave danger of being captured or killed ... or both.
Nolan shouted over his shoulder, "Doesn't look good, old man. Horse won't last much longer."
Ian could almost smell the Russians moving in for the kill. He looked back, saw the leading Cossack raise his sword high in the air. The head of the Cossack's horse came even with him. The giant sword would be coming down. Ian tried to pull the Colt revolver from his belt with his right hand, while his left arm clung desperately to Nolan's waist.
There were several distinct cracks, and bullets buzzed by Ian's head. He thought: These Cossacks are rather spectacular shots ... from galloping horses. He chanced another look back, half expecting to feel the Cossack's sword slicing down to cleave off his head. To his surprise, two more Cossacks had fallen from their horses, including the one close by. The last Cossack picked his best, and only option. He swerved expertly away, heading back from where he'd come, leaving his five companions bleeding bright red onto the Crimean soil.
Ian's puzzlement overcame his enormous relief. He looked in front. There, emerging from a clump of trees ahead was a group of grinning, green-jacketed riflemen, reloading their weapons as they moved. Their Minie' rifle muskets had done their deadly business well. Ian and Nolan knew how close they'd come, and waved thanks as they rode past the smirking riflemen, who were convinced these two bumbling 'staff officers' had merely gotten themselves lost and ended up in front of their advance post.
Later, their horse rested, the two made their way to the landing area to find Lord Raglan's headquarters. It was still raining ... but more vigorously.
"Christ," Nolan said, "we'll never find His Lordship in this sopping mess. Look at my uniform, will you."
"Not to worry," cut in Ian. "The Army landed without tents, remember, the headquarters should be an easy spy." He was right. The only tents visible were His Lordship's headquarters, and were rather conspicuous in the middle of 27,000 soldiers bedding down on barren fields of wet, mushy ground with only their greatcoats for cover.
Ian remained highly agitated from their narrow escape. He was trying to get past how close they came to death, without much success. What am I doing here, he asked himself? How in God's name did I get here? I was to be a scholar, don the academic robes at Cambridge.
He glanced about at the soldiers trying to find comfort amid the mud and downpour. He could taste the remains of his terror, sand-dry mouth smacking when he opened it. There was an odd feeling, though. He found himself almost sorry the excitement was over, thinking: My blood is still racing. My heart's beating faster than I care to imagine. He laughed to himself. You bloody fool; you've answered your own question, haven't you? It's the destiny you've always wanted ... Captain Ian David Carlyle, Scots Fusilier Guards, meeting the enemies of the queen ... and that, indeed, is why you're here.
As the two officers picked their way through the waterlogged red-clad regiments, Ian focused on the day, now coming rapidly to a close. He had changed. He knew that, but he didn't know how.
Ian reflected: A very long day, indeed. Lewis and I ran from the Russians, yes, but it was our only choice. I was afraid, God, I was so afraid, yet it didn't stop me. In fact, it was exhilarating. I never felt so alive. No, by damn, it wasn't that bad after all, and I acquitted myself rather well, considering. It all happened so quickly ... so very quickly.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from FOLLOW ME TO GLORY by Will Hutchison Copyright © 2006 by Will Hutchison . Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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