From somewhere to our right came the noise of tramping feet and the clank of shovels; the picquets were going out. The tiny spark of a spent cigarette sailed through the blackness and a voice called, ‘Damn this rain. I shan’t be surprised if we turns into fishes.’
Bad news awaited George. Word had got through that William Rimmer was dead of a head wound. As always, it was supposed he had not suffered. The shot had hit him fair and square between the eyes and snuffed him out like a candle.
Pompey Jones has shown up again, this time solely in charge of the photographer’s van. His superior is not with him and he boasts of being on an important assignment for the Royal College of Surgeons, namely the obtainment of studies featuring wounds sustained by both the living and the dead. This, of course, requires him to spend his time in the company of George, though sometimes I have spied Myrtle and him involved in conversation. The van is somewhat the worse for wear, a shell having landed nearby and showered it with fragments. I caught Myrtle patting its sides as though it was an animal that needed calming. Two of the windows have gone and the paintwork is much scored, revealing streaks of purple and a curious golden letter, either U or N.
We are to move shortly, further up the Tchernaya valley towards a place known as Inkerman. I believe I visited this spot in happier days, for I recall ruins of the same name upon the mountainous heights.
Not wishing to be in the dark as to both the purpose and direction of our journey, I was forced to enquire of Captain Jerome where exactly we were heading. Beyond stating that we were to form part of the British siege corps to the right of Sebastopol, he was of little help, but reluctantly lent me a Russian map of the area. As far as I could tell the ridge called Inkerman is separated on the west by the Careenage Ravine and though forested to the east is open and bare to the west. This, of course, means that we shall yet again be at the mercy of the elements.
I am in two minds as to whether I should bother to pack my tent, it being in a wretched state, perfectly sodden and much holed. It would be better for my health if I slept in the hospital tent, though that too is in a deplorable condition. I am at least better off as far as transport is concerned; three days ago over two hundred cavalry horses of the Light Brigade stampeded into the camp, their riders having perished in a charge along the north valley.
An auction was held, and I bought another mare so shocked by its recent subjection to bombardment as to have passed beyond nervousness into a state bordering on imbecility, and therefore manageable. Ear-drums shattered, she responds well enough to a prod of my boot. I turned loose the wicked little beast I had previously owned and have not seen her since.
Most mornings I forage for wood for the fire. The ground hereabouts, though stony, in places sprouts scrub oak. Although the stunted trees have long since been hacked down, the roots of some remain twisted within the earth. One would think the rain would make digging easier – not so, for the ground slopes precipitously and I am obliged to carry a pickaxe.
The other day, riding up the hillside bent on this monotonous task, I was near witness to an act of uncommon bravery, though many would regard it differently. A soldier – difficult to tell his age, for all except the very young are now equally sunken of eye and hollow of cheek – stood leaning against a boulder looking down at his feet. I did notice he was holding his rifle the wrong way round and thought perhaps he might be waiting for some edible creature to crawl out of the earth.
I had gone only a short distance when I heard the sound of a shot, followed by groaning. Riding back, I found the man standing on one leg, the other bent at the knee. There was a jagged hole in his boot, out of which bubbled a quantity of blood. Neither of us spoke for some moments, then, looking at me piteously, he asked, ‘Did you see what happened, sir?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I was some way ahead.’
‘My hand must have slipped, sir—’
‘No doubt from tiredness,’ I said. ‘One loses concentration.’
‘That’s it, sir,’ he said eagerly. ‘Me mind was on other things.’
I helped him into the saddle and led the mare down the hillside. He spoke to me of home and how he had been a pie-seller to the public houses around Hoxton. The pies were made by his father and sold for a penny, and were of better quality than most, though full of pepper to disguise what meat was used. He carried the gravy in an oil can, and when he’d made a sale he stuck his finger in the crust and poured the gravy into the hole. He was eighteen years old next birthday and he’d had sisters, none of whose faces he could remember because they’d died before he was grown. No, he wasn’t in pain; leastways no worse than when he’d had an abscess beneath his tooth.
Would it, I pondered, have been less an act of cowardice if he had shot himself in the temple rather than the foot? In similar circumstances, would I have been able to muster the courage to injure myself? I decided not. I took him straightways to George, saying I’d found him lying in a ditch.
This morning, before we were due to move camp, a funeral service was held. Wood being so scarce the carpenters make few caskets and those only for the officers; the rest of the dead are wrapped in old tents or pieces of oil-cloth and laid side by side on bullock carts seized from the surrounding villages.
The burial ground, once an orchard, lay in a hollow a short distance away. Out of respect for the occasion, the gods had stilled the rain and the sun sent forth a weak glitter. When the wagons began their lurching progression over the stony ground, the makeshift shrouds shook loose and it was noticeable how many of the corpses were going barefooted to the grave. Some among us hissed their disapproval at the sight, possibly the very ones who now walked better shod than before. I myself did not find it objectionable; as the chaplain presently intoned, We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away.
Pompey Jones set up his tripod and put on his hood. There is something of black magic in the photographer’s art, in that he stops time. The chaplain left off reading and stayed motionless with the book in his hand, the men stood bareheaded; only the poor dead stirred as the winding cloths flapped in the wind.
I don’t know that I think much of the camera. It appears to hold reality hostage, and yet fails to snap thoughts in the head. A man can be standing there, face expressive of grief, and inside be full of either mirth or lust. The lens is powerless to catch the interior turmoil boiling within the skull, nor can it expose lewd recollections – which is all to the good. In my case, staring transfixed at the wrapped dead, I conceived an image of Beatrice in her weekend night-gown. At bedtimes, no doubt stirred by a Sunday morning spent dwelling on the hereafter, she was in the habit of taking the initiative, clambering over me, breath smelling of chocolate pudding, thighs reeking of that exciting odour of crayfish.
The rain fell again. Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow—
It was then, standing there, my eyes fixed on the row of mummies about to be consigned to the mud, that I saw Beatrice. She was beckoning me. I closed my lids, thinking to blot her out, but she was still there, finger crooked. I obeyed her, though reluctantly. She floated ahead, and stopping beside an outcrop of rock gestured me to kneel down. There, in a crevice, waved a thin stalk crowned with a blue flowerhead no larger than a bodice button. I looked up, and Beatrice was smiling, and the smile was full of love. I reached out my hand and plucked the flower and she shook her head sorrowfully. No, no, I heard her say, but her voice was gentle, the tone a mother uses to a child. Behind me, the chaplain was reciting, Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord; even so sayeth the Spirit; for they rest from their labours. Then Beatrice left me and the dead were dropped into the ground to begin their dissolution. I opened my fist and the wind tore away that scrap of blue crumpled within my palm. I thought of Mr Lyell and his supposition that the human race faced not merely extinction but the gradual obli
teration of every trace of its existence.
Afterwards, when we’d marched back again, George demanded to know why I’d behaved so disrespectfully. He said I’d picked the wrong moment to show off my knowledge of rocks. I didn’t defend myself.
I rode towards Inkerman with my chin buried in my shirt, smelling myself for warmth. A man can vomit from the stench given off by others, yet take positive pleasure in the odour produced by himself. Midst the dirt and the staleness I detected the frail scent of cornflowers.
Plate 6. November 1854
SMILE, BOYS, SMILE
We are positioned on a ridge above the Tchernaya valley opposite some ruins. Potter says the stones are very ancient. He now remembers visiting the spot when a young man, and tells of a monastery built into the rock. He rambles on about medieval times, which I take to be some years into the past.
With the exception of the troops who guard our headquarter camps and the French ports of supply, our army, starting from Stresleka Bay, spreads out in a line twenty miles long, runs parallel with the Sebastopol defences until it reaches the Careenage Ravine, enfolds half Mount Inkerman, then doubles back southward along the crest of the Sapouné Ridge.
I glean all this from Potter, who has pestered a Captain Frampton for information. We are apparently sat between Sir Richard England’s division and General Buller’s brigade. The 21st, under Sir George Cathcart – we haven’t yet set eyes on him – is mainly engaged in manning the trenches. Should Lord Raglan be forced to call for reinforcements to defend Mount Inkerman, we’d have to march two and a half miles across country. I say we, though I don’t intend to budge.
From our ridge there is a view of the ravine and the Post road which winds towards Sebastopol. Weather permitting and with a fair amount of squinting I can make out the extremities of the harbour, slashed by the masts of ships and the stretch of water that Potter refers to as ‘the Gateway to the Mediterranean’. That bleak gap is apparently the reason for all this misery. As sea and sky are the same ashen shade of grey it is difficult to think of it leading anywhere upon which the sun might shine.
Potter has become something of an expert on military strategy. He spends hours scratching arrows in the mud, indicating possible sorties from the enemy. George doesn’t like it; whenever he catches him he pretends he hasn’t seen the marks and smears them under his boot. The other afternoon, following an obliteration, Potter cried out, ‘Likeness is none between us, but we go to the self-same end.’ George strode off looking thunderous.
Each morning, at first light, two squads of picquets march out to relieve those of the night watch. A picquet is composed of an entire company, and as the casualties increase, often the poor devils stay in their mud-filled trenches in excess of forty-eight hours. They return, some still clothed in their once bright summer uniforms – now turned the colour of old beetroot – dragging their feet and with faces old as time. There is little difference between the living and the dead, save that the latter come back on litters.
The din goes on day and night, though at some distance. I’ve got used to it. Nor do I start back in fear any more when the grey horizon flashes with violet light and throws up fiery plumes. Often the smoke assumes the shapes of ghostly ridges which tremble for a while, turn pink, then melt into the sullen sky. I’ve seen a dwarf oak catch fire and blaze in the night like Moses’s burning bush. The explosions throw up stones which, falling, rearrange themselves in burial mounds.
I intend to survive. I consulted Potter and he agreed with me that a man, so long as he keeps concentration, can will himself into staying alive. I’m not like those other wretched examples of my class who come from nothing, and who, should they escape the slaughter, are doomed to return to the same oblivion, and be broken men into the bargain.
I have it planned out. I shall rise in my profession, wed a good woman without airs or graces, and grow old surrounded by my children. I don’t hanker to be over-rich, just comfortable. None of my offspring, God willing, will ever beg for bread as I once did.
With this in mind, and the photographer having found himself a billet outside the camp, I’ve taken to sleeping in the van, to be out of the damp. I claim it as my own vehicle, seeing it was me who purchased it, the Punch and Judy man having died and gone to his maker. It was also my idea to put in tinted windows and build shelves, though I regret painting the outside white as it can be seen for miles and often draws fire. It’s cramped, and at nightfall I turf some of the chemicals outside, which wouldn’t please my employer if he came back unexpected. If he does, I’m all set to ask him whether he wants a live assistant or a dead one, the condition of the tents being guaranteed to shove one into the grave. Supplies can’t get through owing to the constant barrage from the Russian guns; there is only one blanket apiece and that so encrusted with slime from the waterlogged earth as to be useless. The men who doze within such musty shelters pile together for warmth, stirring and jostling like a litter of pigs.
Potter and Myrtle have moved inside the hospital tent with George, though that has become no better than a charnel house. Not a day goes by without its quota of wounded. One night, in the space of three hours, ten men were brought in, felled by a howitzer shell. Of these, seven had already lost either an arm or a leg and the remaining three required amputations.
At first Dr Potter used to go outside when George began his sawing. Now he stays put by the stove, pretending to be absorbed in one of his mildewed books.
There’s no telling who will live and who will not. A man can have his limbs torn off, the blood draining out of him like a leaking barrel, and recover; another can stumble in with no more than a flesh wound to the groin and snuff it within twenty-four hours. Those whose stomachs have been ploughed up, their innards dangling like pale links of pork, fare the worst. Neither will-power nor medicine can heal them.
They carried in a drummer boy a few nights back. He was not above twelve years of age and had been put to work in the trenches, there being so many casualties. In the act of shovelling up dirt, body bent and his right hand holding the handle of the spade, he was struck by a round shot which passed between his legs, laid bare an artery and ripped off his cock and scrotum. They hadn’t been able to bring him in right away owing to the ambulance wagon getting stuck in the mud. He was put on the table, where he jerked like a fish on the hook. Myrtle didn’t go near him. Potter says she’s a devoted mother, but I suspect her children function as a cord to bind her more tightly to George.
Nothing could be done for the drummer boy. George told me to administer chloroform. I’ve taken to helping in this way, and am glad to be of use. If you know they’re asleep and you see their faces smooth out, your belly stops heaving. I held the pad over the lad’s face for a long time, so that he never woke again, not in this world. The chloroform smells fruity, a touch like strawberries, which is pleasant since we all stink, Potter more than most.
I’ve reminded George of the time he and William Rimmer had me go into the cage with the ape, and how he’d been drunk as a lord on the journey home to Blackberry Lane. I reckon memory is selective because he held it was me who was inebriated, as proved by the way I’d stretched out in the sand while he was conversing with the fisher of eels. He didn’t like my mentioning Rimmer; I could tell that from the way his eyelids fluttered.
Stung, I said, ‘Rimmer was cock-a-hoop that day. He wanted to take all the credit.’
George said, ‘I haven’t your memory,’ and turned his back on me.
I tried to get Potter to discuss what it meant when events were recollected differently. He said he wasn’t in the mood and had enough lapses of his own without fretting over other people’s. Often he talks to his wife Beatrice, which disturbs George. He fears Potter is going out of his mind. I detect no evidence of it, and besides, things being the way they are, removing oneself from the present, by whatever ruse, seems a sensible enough way of keeping cheerful. I try to think of someone I could conjure up should it become necessary, but there’s no one. My
mother’s face got wiped clean in the long gone past.
When the drummer boy was laid down, Potter started mumbling aloud from one of his books. I shall follow his example and read when I get old. He himself once said I was half-way to being a scholar, seeing that the action of the camera goes some distance towards capturing the mystery of human conduct.
Before they buried the drummer boy I stripped him of his uniform and encouraged Myrtle to wear it. Her dress was too thin for the winter and in any case much bedraggled. She refused outright, but I got George to persuade her, and now she wears a jacket and breeches. She didn’t even have to wash them, the blood having been rinsed off by the rain. All that was needed was a patch – in this case, a square of red petticoat – to cover the holes torn in the trousers. She looks well in such clothes and I would like to take her portrait, only it pours all the time and the plates would get splattered.
Most nights, when there’s a lull in the hacking and suturing, we huddle round the stove. There are usually five of us. I’ve chummed up with an elderly man called Charles White. He hails from Ireland and is good-humoured. Starting out poor, he made a fortune out of brick fields but was later ruined owning to a failure of the bank. Unused to penury, his wife faded away and now lies in a pauper’s grave. He himself, until war was declared and he volunteered for military service, was incarcerated in the debtors’ underground prison in Clerkenwell. In spite of this he jokes a good deal. He has a ginger moustache and walks with his feet splayed out. George finds him amusing and has successfully reduced a swelling of the ankles caused by his former shackling.
The Novels of Beryl Bainbridge Volume 1 Page 44
