The Winter Soldiers Read online

  His father turned on him and there was a gleeful look of triumph in his eye.

  ‘Voice changed all of a sudden, eh?’ His face hardened to stone. ‘Think I don’t know my own whelp when I see him. Run away from home, damn you? What are you doing in the ranks, boy?’

  It was all up. His father knew him. He stared back at the man he hated so much.

  ‘It was of my own choosing. I had no desire to be in the same fold as you, sir.’

  ‘What? Blaming me because your mother was a trollop? You think she was the only wench I bedded? Not by half, boy. Not by half. Don’t even know you as my own son. Only my wife, the lady you called mother, persuaded me you was and I’ve come to think she was wrong. I think you’ve chosen your mark. You was always intended for the gutter. Now, James, he’s twice the man you are, sir. He don’t run away from his responsibilities. He don’t look at me as if I was some kind of low creature. God damn your eyes boy. I gave you a home, I gave you a name, bastard that you are, and this is how you repay me.’

  Lovelace and Jarrard now realized who this major was and they knew it was not a good idea to interfere. They faded into the shade of the Bulgar’s stall.

  ‘I’m not repaying you for anything, sir. I’m simply following my own path. I prefer the ranks.’

  Major Kirk had gone a dark shade of purple. ‘So you can make me ashamed? So I have my brother officers bleating about me behind my back, saying poor Kirk, his son’s in the ranks you know, a mere sergeant in a foot regiment. That’s the idea is it? To cause a scandal? Well I disclaim you, sir. I cast you off. You are no longer my son, never were in fact. Just the whelp of some whore of a maid . . .’

  ‘You are speaking of my natural mother,’ said Crossman in a dangerous voice. ‘If you say one more word, Father, I’ll slap your face here in public. See if you can explain it all away at my court martial. I can prove my real identity, you know, and James would never disown me as a brother, not even to save you from a scandal. James is an honourable man at heart, and I love him as much as I detest you. He knows that. He might be afraid of you, but not enough to deny me.’

  Major Kirk looked around him and saw that though there was no one close enough to hear them, several officers and a few men were looking in their direction, aware of a fracas. They were arousing interest and the panic showed in the elderly man’s face. He could get away with a great deal but he was too proud to withstand a great scandal. It would pull him down from his pompous heights and leave him without a friend. At least, the kind of friends such a man makes. And without these so-called friends he would be nothing at all and prey to his enemies. Major Kirk had made almost as many enemies as Lord Cardigan in his way and there were many who would have given their eye teeth to get even with him.

  ‘Monstrous!’ he muttered. ‘I’ll see you again, sir, you damned scamp. You slubber! I’ll have your skin, believe me.’

  With that Major Kirk strode off, leaving Crossman a quivering wreck of a man. He could never come up against his father without feeling drained and weak at the end of the encounter. It was easy at times when his father was not there, to dismiss him, but he was a powerful presence and he always left wounds in his wake. James was absolutely terrified of the old man and would normally go out of his way not to upset him. To stop his hands from shaking Crossman rammed them into his pockets and slunk back to where Jarrard and Lovelace stood.

  ‘My God, man,’ said Jarrard, ‘that was horrible to witness. You didn’t tell me you had Zeus for a father.’

  Despite himself, Crossman smiled. ‘Yes, Zeus. I wonder what that makes me?’

  ‘A hero, in anyone’s view,’ remarked Major Lovelace, coming out of the shadows. ‘Jarrard is right. My own father is a Tartar, but nothing compared with yours. I would not like to be in your boots.’

  ‘I don’t like them much, either,’ replied Crossman, ‘but unfortunately I’ve got to wear them. Well, the cat’s out of the bag now. I wonder what he’ll do about it? He might try to have me sent home.’

  ‘Colonel Hawke would have something to say about that.’

  ‘My father has powerful connections.’

  ‘So has Hawke. I shouldn’t worry, sergeant. I think he’ll seethe and simmer for a day or two, make a few enquiries, and find himself coming up against forces he can’t control. Just keep a low profile for a while. You’ve got a fox hunt coming up, in any case. I think I’ll bring it forward a day or so and get you out of the way. I’ll have to inform Colonel Hawke about what’s going on, but I don’t think he’ll be very impressed with Major Kirk. I know this is easy to say and difficult for you to act on, but I should try to forget about it and just sink yourself into your job.’

  Crossman went back to Kadikoi in a depressed state of mind. A man’s father is a powerful force in his life. With one breath his father had denied him, yet with another he had called him his own. These contradictory statements showed how even Major Kirk was struggling with the idea of his son’s illegitimacy. The old man could, of course, have denied him from birth. Major Kirk could have consigned Crossman’s mother to the workhouse for good and all and put her claims down to the ramblings of a madwoman. Many gentlemen did just that. They fornicated and forgot. If the mother of their child appeared with a baby in arms, they called the authorities to remove her and the brat. If she persisted she most likely ended up in Bedlam. By that time she was probably ready for the place and spent the rest of her life there. The child either died or went out onto the streets, where it begged or stole, and was often shipped off to a penal colony. Not many illegitimate children of baronets ended up calling themselves gentry and benefiting from the kind of life Crossman had enjoyed as Alexander Kirk.

  Crossman believed his stepmother had been the main force behind his father’s acceptance of him in the family home. She was a woman who took her responsibilities and duties as a human being very seriously. So far as Major Kirk was concerned, his wife had grave failings: she was too sentimental, too emotional. She had, as soon as she laid eyes on Crossman, seen the resemblance to her husband. Crossman looked even more like the old man than James did. All knew the truth of the matter, even had some of them thought the maid had lied about who was responsible for her condition. Certainly Kirk himself knew he had bedded the woman and the face of the child, as it grew, would have amazed even the most sceptical with its likeness to the major. They might have said James was the changeling, but never Alexander.

  Yet, Crossman admitted to himself, this could not be the whole story – that his stepmother had taken him in. The baronet could, at that time, have covered up the child’s existence. He was a man of means. Somehow something had brought him to tell his wife of his indiscretion – this particular indiscretion at least – and that began the chain of events which led to the baby being accepted as the second son. It was the thought that his father actually loved him as a son which brought Crossman the most grief. That a man like Major Kirk, whom Crossman considered to be the scum of the earth, should have some finer feelings was quite upsetting. It was difficult for him, with his father, to step outside the role of child, and to children bogey men are all bad. They can’t be good in some ways and bad in others. They must be evil through and through. It made him thoroughly miserable to imagine that his father was actually capable of loving him. He didn’t want to be loved by such a man, not one scrap. He wanted hate from him, so that he could feel justified in hating him back. This halfway-house feeling did not satisfy his need to loathe the man who had destroyed his real mother without a qualm.

  That his father was also a courageous man in battle, he could accept. Many unscrupulous men were careless of their personal safety. That he had a code of honour, which did not include the care of women he had ruined, was also not incompatible with physical courage. It was such a man’s ability to love that could not be reconciled in Crossman’s mind with his behaviour towards his fellow human beings, those who shared the earth with him.

  ‘I hope the man is put to the sword,’ he thought, as he
lay in bed and wrestled with these demons. ‘I hope some Cossack seizes his chance and puts an end to my agony, and his own. He surely cannot be at peace with himself. He would surely be happier to be rid of such a heinous life.’

  He fell asleep with these wishes in his head, not believing a single one of them.

  Waking in the early hours he found they had not gone away. Lovelace was now in his bed, snoring. The cold dawn rays were slipping through the window. Crossman winced as he remembered yesterday’s embarrassing encounter. Both father and son, surely, at that moment could have died of shame. To be bawling at one another in the middle of a ring of soldiers. How humiliating it appeared now! Someone must have reported the incident. Major Kirk at least would be the butt of any conversation amongst the officers of the 93rd, both yesterday, today and tomorrow. Entertainments were few and far between. The tiger of malicious gossip ran riot in such circumstances. As to Crossman, many of them would be wondering who he was, this sergeant, that a major should allow him to walk away after such insolence and insubordination.

  Deep down, Crossman knew that what upset him the most was the knowledge that he was his father’s son. That man he seemed to hate so much had passed some of himself on to his son. How much of Crossman was Major Kirk? How much of his father’s personality and character had been handed down to his youngest son? Perhaps a great deal? Perhaps they were as bad as each other? All this confusion of identity was so hard to bear. Would he indeed end up hating himself as much as he loathed his father now? Perhaps in ripe old age his father would mellow, become beloved of everyone, and leave Crossman as the nasty middle-aged rake who had dowagers clicking their tongues and young men casting scornful glances. Would Crossman become the old fox that his father was now? It was an unpleasant thought. Damned unpleasant.

  ‘Oh my God,’ he groaned aloud. ‘What am I to do now?’

  ‘Go back to sleep,’ murmured the figure in the next cot. ‘I strongly advise it. In the morning light it will look differently.’

  ‘It is the morning light and it looks ghastly.’

  ‘I mean breakfast time, sergeant. I’m quite fatigued, so I would appreciate the rest.’

  Within a few moments the major was snoring again. Crossman arose quietly, and took pen, ink and paper from one of the drawers in the major’s chest. He began a letter, staring every so often out of the window at a cockerel that seemed at every second on the verge of crowing, yet never actually managed to clear its throat and let rip.

  My Dearest Cousin Jane, I would have expected to hear of your marriage before now, to some handsome young earl or lord, or even a prince. I would put no man beyond your reach, knowing that you are a non-pareil and untouchable in the beauty stakes. Even when you were six and had those funny teeth you were still the prettiest young lady for a thousand miles. Yet here you are writing to your wretched cousin sequestered in a foreign land, albeit one where the sun shines brighter, the flowers bloom with more colour and the sea is of the deepest blue. I am well, as you can imagine, for this is but a holiday for the Kirks. Yesterday my father and I had an interesting conversation about biological matters: subjects not fit for the ear of a young unmarried lady. He (my father) still has his old temper and I am afraid we left each other on bad terms. It needs someone like you (he was always sweet with you, was he not, cousin Jane?) to sugar his tea for him and to turn him into a presentable human being. His choler will kill him one of these days. I must take my share of the blame though, for I seem to fuel his rage.

  Now, Jane, why are you not married? I myself was once engaged to a very beautiful French lady, but I have not heard from her in an age and I fear she has found another. Who could keep such a lady at this distance with all those gallants sweeping around Paris, gathering up such flowers? Some young stalwart has taken her in his arms and has told her he would die if she refused his offer. Who can blame her? I am not the man I was when first we met. Indeed, for all this bountiful land has to offer I seem to have grown a terrible beard (I look like some mad Russian monk fallen from grace) and to have shed my puppy fat. Possibly I look better without the latter, for my face was never better covered up and my bones, which are my most attractive features, have come to the fore to present themselves to the world at large.

  Jane, you would weep for the poor soldiery here in the field. I have been very fortunate in being chosen for special duties and do not have to spend hours in a freezing trench. The sight of our pitiful army is not one I would force upon anyone in Britain. We are indeed a ragged, unhappy bunch, some of us worse off than others. Our leader is fairly comfortable in his farmhouse, but I do not blame him for that. We see very little of him and he surrounds himself with his relations. That I do take issue with, for this war would be ended more quickly if his advisers had more intellectual strength and were less sycophantic.

  The candle gutters and looks ready to give up its flame. I must end this letter here. I shall pass it to our mutual friend, Mrs Durham, who will no doubt find some way of getting it to you. She has many admirers amongst the yachting set, who go back and forth. I hope it finds you well in health and happy in heart.

  I remain, as always,

  your most affectionate,

  Alexander

  The candle was not ‘guttering’ of course, for it was now daylight outside, but he needed an excuse to wrap up the letter. He could have rambled on for hours, but it would only be babble and he knew his adopted aunt would be horrified if Jane received a letter some ten pages long from someone who had no intention of courting her. Three pages were fine. That was very cousinly and proper. He put the pages in the same envelope which had borne her own letter to him, having no other. Then he crossed out his own name and wrote hers.

  Well, there! He had done the right thing. He had received a missive and had now replied. His duty was done. Yet, it had not been so irksome a duty as he had thought it might be. Jane was a very pleasant girl – a woman now of course – and thoughts of her had carried him home and back to times more agreeable than the present. She had allowed him to recall the scent of the blossoms on the greengage trees and the newly-scythed hay at the bottom of the long garden . . .

  ‘Sergeant!’ came Wynter’s harsh strident tones, yelling up the stairs. ‘You’re wanted down ’ere.’

  The beautiful moment was gone: shattered like a bowl dropped on tiles. Crossman sighed and descended the stairs, still in the fur coat he had put on to keep out the cold while he wrote the letter.

  ‘Keep your voice down, Wynter. The major’s asleep.’

  ‘Sorry, I’m sure,’ whined Wynter, ‘but there’s a cove here wants us to help him. I said we was special duties and not on for that kind of thing, but he won’t listen. Says that don’t matter, ’cause his is a special job.’

  A naval gunner stood in the doorway. He was a big man with a dark beard that covered the whole of his weathered face, leaving only two holes for his eyes. It was as if they were staring through a thick hedge. His massive shoulders blocked the light from the doorway almost completely. On his feet he had some Russian boots, which he had obviously taken from a battlefield, but such boots must have been on the feet of a giant. On his head was a fur hat, the kind sold by the sutlers, probably made of the skins of domestic cats.

  ‘You Crossman?’ he growled in a deep voice. ‘Lieutenant Pirce-Smith said you and your men would help.’

  ‘Help what?’ asked Crossman, inwardly cursing his immediate superior, who was obviously looking for ways to get his own back for the last fox hunt.

  ‘We’ve got a cannon out here, a 24-pounder that’s got to be shifted, taken up to the front line. Admiral’s orders. Just got it off a ship in the harbour and hauled it this far, but now it’s stuck.’

  ‘We’ll be right out, sergeant.’

  ‘Grateful.’

  ‘UP, UP!’ Crossman yelled at pretenders and genuine sleepers alike. ‘Boots on. Oh, I see you haven’t taken yours off, Gwilliams. Let’s have you up. Take a quick drink of water and grab a piece of salt beef a
nd biscuit. Then out into the cold day, my little doves.’

  ‘Wait,’ cried Wynter, as the others began rolling out of their cots, groaning and reaching for their boots. ‘You!’ he yelled after the retreating gunner. ‘Ain’t you got oxes to pull the gun?’

  ‘Oxen, you mean. The only animal we had for a while was a camel and he dropped dead on us. We ate him over three days. Still got his tripes. We might give you some, for helpin’ us, but I’m not promising mind, since it ain’t mine to give away, really.’

  Wynter came back. ‘I don’t want no camel tripe. Liver an’ kidneys, yes, but not its guts. They look as tough as old Harry, those beasts and you can bet their innards are not tender.’

  Once they were all ready they went outside. The freezing air stopped every man in his tracks for a moment, then they moved forward, slowly, as if wading through a viscous fluid. The seamen were sitting on and around an enormous piece of ordnance, smoking pipes and looking as if they would rather stay there than move. The gun was quite unlike any of the rangers had ever seen. The greened barrel was shaped like an elongated dragon, the muzzle being the dragon’s mouth, with snout, nostrils and teeth. Twin ears acted as a foresight on the weapon. There were tucked claws and wings at various points along the barrel, blunted and smoothed against the gun, presumably so they would not catch on anything the cannon brushed against. The whole barrel, longer than a British gun of the same calibre, was covered in green scales.

  ‘Where did this come from?’ asked Gwilliams, running a mitten along the weapon. ‘Looks oriental.’

  ‘From far Cathay,’ replied an artillery man promptly. ‘Took from a Chinese battle junk in a river war out that way. Fancy hunk of ordnance, ain’t she? Spits fire and death, just like a real piece. Roars like a good ’un. Scares the livin’ daylights out of the enemy.’

  Wynter stuck his arm in the jaws of the dragon’s mouth.

  ‘Ow, sergeant! It’s chompin’ me arm off.’