This final prayer was a ritual learned at his father's knee, comforting more for the litany than the content. As a cultivated man, Stefan realized Mukhtar Pasha prayed to his God for the same victory. In the end it would be men and not gods who determined the outcome, but the rhythm of the phrases soothed him and the priests' chanting was a calming, familiar musical undertone to the restless agitation gripping him before an attack.
A low hum of conversation broke out afterward as each soldier spoke for a final time to his companions. Haci was trading facetious remarks with one of the Kurdish troopers. The numerous cavalry officers around Stefan were exchanging comments or smoking their last cigarette or checking their weapons. For a small space of time, Stefan stood alone in the midst of his cavalry. Shutting his eyes, he shook his hands briefly at his sides to stimulate the circulation-for his sword grip would be essential in the coming minutes-took a deep breath, opened his eyes and quietly said, "Mount up."
His muted order was immediately obeyed, as though his soft voice had carried to every man in his corps.
Leaning forward in his saddle, he spoke to Cleo, promising her green pastures and respite when Kars was taken, his fingers smoothing the soft velvet of her ears, his voice so low it didn't even carry to Haci at his side. Whether Cleo understood the words or merely responded to his tone and the preparations for battle, she turned her head for a moment and looked at him with her large intelligent eyes. She'd carried Stefan across the plains of Asia on the Kokand campaign and in every battle since with as charmed a life as his own. A bond existed between them that was based not just on sentiment but on mutual need.
With a brushing stroke down her neck, Stefan straightened and turned to survey his officers and men formed in ranks behind him. His cavalry was mounted in tight order, knee to knee. Circassians, Kurds, Daghestanis, cossack lancers and some of the elite Gardes, the grenadiers and infantry arranged behind them by battalion. All eyes were on Stefan, the only general who actually led his men himself, dressed in his white Gardes uniform on his favorite black horse, his tattered banner flaring in the wind, the pennant as medieval in appearance as his Circassian standard bearer dressed in surtout and helmet. The square of silk fastened to a cossack lance had the white cross of Saint George on one side and on the other the letters S.B., for Stefan Bariatinsky, and the date 1872 in yellow on a red ground. It had been carried throughout the Kokand campaign from the taking of Kazan to the subjugation of the Kirghez tribesmen, carried beside him in all the fights that had made him famous as the best young commander in Russia.
The cold was intense and penetrating as they arranged themselves in order of attack in the ravines at the base of the steep ramparts guarding the forts, the wind chilling their blood. A full moon shone from a dark blue sky on the waiting men, on the open plain and valleys of the foothills, on the snow-wrapped mountain ridges glimmering in the distance. A remarkable silence invested the thousands of men, a total silence, for after days of bombardment the guns and cannons had now fallen mute. Even the Turks would now know that an attack was coming after weeks of artillery fire spaced fifteen minutes apart, day and night.
Gazing up at the formidable bulk of Karadagh and Tabias, forts built by Prussian and English engineers to withstand any conceivable attack, Stefan surveyed the ground he knew so well he could see it in his sleep and picked out the routes for each of his battalions in the shadows of the rocky incline.
He was ready, his men were ready, the Turks were holding their breath for the assault.
The time had come.
Wrapping his reins lightly around his left arm, leaving slack for Cleo to maneuver on her own, Stefan raised his right arm and a pulse beat later swept it forward, his signal for the music to play. With banners flying, the Eleventh Cavalry Division disappeared into the cloud of dense white smoke that erupted before them.
The advancing columns were a dark mass in the haze of defensive artillery and rifle fire, moving upward, wavering at times under the intense Turkish volleys, hesitating in instances until supporting regiments carried the mass farther on with their fresh momentum, the army always rolling forward despite the varying terrain or circumstances in an undulating propulsion of human bravery. Stefan rode through the torrent of rifle fire, unmindful of the bullets, his mind once again free of personal concerns, his concentration solely on the progress of the battle, placing himself where he saw encouragement was most needed, moving back and forth across the line of assault urging his men on, rallying them when needed against the withering fire. Men fell around him, his officers and escort were cut down, but he seemed immune to the bullets flying past him, always in the thick of the barrage, impelling his men forward.
Chapter Nineteen
Behind their redoubts, the Turks were firing with such rapidity a flaming red line of fire tore into the advancing columns. As they drew closer to the entrenchments the second and third attack battalions slowed down and began to falter. In horror, Stefan saw the first break begin, the first men turn in retreat before the annihilating fire storm, and knew not a moment could be lost or his men would lose heart. He had only two battalions of sharpshooters left in reserve, the best in his detachment. Quickly waving them forward, he put himself at the head of these, picking up the stragglers in his rush forward, reaching the troops that were considering retreat and giving them the inspiration of his own courage. He gathered up the whole mass as if with a single sweeping motion of his arm and carried it toward the redoubt with a rush and a cheer.
The entire fortress before them was like a vision of hell, enveloped in flame and smoke, the steady crash of deadly rifle fire a lethal barricade they must cross, but his men pushed on because their general was a dozen yards ahead of them and they wouldn't fail him. Stefan's sword was shot in two twenty yards from the ramparts, tossed aside and replaced in a reflexive blur of motion from his saddle scabbard; his uniform was covered with mud and filth, his cross of Saint George twisted round on his shoulder, his face black with powder and smoke, but he charged forward the last few yards with a savage yell and Cleo soared over the last ditch, the scarp and counterscarp, over the parapet and swept into the redoubt like a hurricane. Stefan was smiling, feeling the old frenzied energy and brashness. He heard his own scream with a sense of exhilaration, heard the answering roar of his troops streaming in behind him and knew his men would follow him anywhere.
Like a pressured damn breaking, the Turkish defenses crumbled against the onslaught of an army that shouldn't have been able to reach their entrenchments, that should have retreated against the superiority of their Peabody-Martini rifles, that was led by a maniac they all recognized as the phenomenal White General… Bariatinsky.
And twenty bloody minutes later the Tsar's army had taken the redoubt.
The question then was how to hold it, dominated as it was by the Tabias fort, exposed to the fire of sharpshooters concealed behind the next line of trenches and the artillery sights of the citadel. Stefan knew they would be counterattacked. Mukhtar Pasha had no other choice but to try to retake Karadagh and hold that and Tabias at any cost. Both armies understood the significance of the forts protecting the entrance to the citadel.
In less than ten minutes, Stefan's cavalry met the first rush of the regrouped Turks, giving the grenadiers and infantry time to scramble over the parapets, giving the last reserves time to advance up the hill, and ten minutes later what was left of the cavalry faced the Turkish counterattack pouring down the earthworks toward them.