by A L Berridge
‘Is he saying it’s dangerous?’ said Bolton anxiously. ‘For the horses? Bobbin’s weak enough already, a whole week in a stall not big enough to lie down.’
‘Oh, stow it, Tommy,’ said Fisk irritably. ‘There’s no danger, we wouldn’t be going otherwise.’
Bolton creased his brow. ‘But Ryder says …’
‘What does Ryder know?’ said Fisk, and snorted. ‘Giving himself airs like a bloody general. He’s a nobody, same as us.’
Oliver glanced across to the hatch. The farrier-sergeant was red faced and waving his arms in exaggerated helplessness, but Ryder stood silent with his arms folded and his head down, giving only an occasional expressive nod.
‘Cardigan,’ said Jordan, nodding his head wisely. ‘Bet you a tanner. This’ll be Cardigan wanting to get the Light Brigade off before Lucan’s even thought of it. Colley says he’ll do anything to show up Lucan in front of Lord Raglan.’
Oliver looked away. Colley was Lord Lucan’s servant, and the main source of Jordan’s information, but it couldn’t be more than silly gossip. All the fellows joked about their commanders, but he knew they wouldn’t really order a disembarkation if it wasn’t safe.
‘First section “G” Troop!’ called a squeaky voice by the hatch, and Cornet Hoare came bustling importantly up to the rail. ‘Saddles and packs, back here in ten minutes. All aboard for the Crimea!’
Hoare’s voice had hardly broken yet, but he represented authority and at once the men dashed whooping for the hold. Oliver glanced doubtfully back at Ryder, but the corporal only gestured with ironic courtesy and said, ‘Well, get a move on, Polly. You wouldn’t want to lose that nice new stripe.’ He was utterly insufferable.
But he was also right, and Oliver pulled himself together to join the race down the ladder. The hold seemed more oppressive than ever after the sunlight on deck, warm and fetid with the stench of sweat and diarrhoea. It was dark, too, illuminated only by the swaying lamps that creaked on ropes overhead, but he picked his way through it with the familiarity of a long voyage and found the unwanted spot in the middle that had been his own bed. His blanket was rolled and ready, his haversack needed only to be slung on his back, but it was the valise that mattered, and he knelt on the damp boards to pack it with care.
These were his personal things. The groundsheet Colonel Lygon had given every man in the regiment when they left for the Crimea. The letters from his sister, precious, marked ‘Vicky’, and numbered in order. The Adams revolver in its case, good as any officer’s, given to him by the squire in his father’s old parish. The Christ’s Hospital Bible, inscribed with the charge never to forget the benefits he had received from the charity school that had taken in the orphaned boy and given him the education of a gentleman. Oliver stroked the cheap leather with love and stowed the book with reverence. He had never forgotten, and one day he was going to make the School proud.
‘Oliver!’ called a woman’s voice. He spun round in shock, but an oil lamp by the bulkhead showed him only the fair hair of young Mrs Jarvis kneeling by a blanketed figure on the boards. It would take more than regulations to keep out Sally Jarvis when one of her troop needed nursing.
‘Oliver!’ she said again, waving impatiently. ‘Come over, he wants to see you.’
He knew then, knew it before he saw the tortured face of the man in the blanket. Ronnie Stokes. His only real friend in this army, the one man who understood things and would pray with him in the evenings when everything looked dark. They’d prayed yesterday, just last night. Had he been suffering all the time and never said?
‘Dysentery,’ he told himself, as he clambered over the legs of reclining ‘B’ Troop to reach the bulkhead. It didn’t have to be – the other thing, the disease they’d left behind in the cavalry camp at Devno. He reached the dark wooden wall, but Ronnie’s hand came up and his voice said ‘Not too close, old man. Not … too close.’
Oliver looked down at the boards at his feet. The lamp made a yellow puddle of the floor, and in it he saw the spreading stain of fluid seeping from under Ronnie’s body. It was almost colourless, the cracks of the planks clearly visible through it, and the faintly fishy odour told him the rest. Cholera.
He looked up in horror and met the sad eyes of Mrs Jarvis. She said, ‘There are orderlies coming, but he wanted to see you before he went.’
‘Yes,’ said Ronnie, snatching at the word. ‘Some things I want you to have.’ He moved his eyes towards a shadowy cylinder by his blanket. ‘By my valise.’
Oliver’s heart thumped. ‘You’ll want them with you.’
‘No,’ said Ronnie simply, then closed his eyes in the convulsion of another cramp.
It was unbearable. He said, ‘You’ll get better, old fellow, lots of chaps do,’ but the faint blue tinge of the final stages was already in Ronnie’s face. By evening he’d be just another canvas-wrapped corpse floating in the fleet’s wake.
‘There’s no one else,’ said Ronnie. ‘No auction. Just …’ Again he nodded at the valise.
Oliver understood. Ronnie had no family, no one they’d have to raise money for by selling his possessions. He said, ‘Just to look after, then. Till you join us in Sebastopol.’
There were three items laid out for him: a green bottle of French brandy, a wooden box of cheroots, and the familiar pack of playing cards. It was the cards that hurt most, and just the feel of the box in his hand tightened Oliver’s throat. Those evenings of two-handed whist were all that had kept him going during those first dreadful months in the army when he’d been so terrified of Jarvis he could hardly even sleep. He was still scared of Jarvis – everyone was, except Ryder – but Ronnie had helped him master the drill, and in the evenings there’d been those games when they could talk and laugh and it was almost like being back at school.
‘Lot of sins for you there, Charlie,’ said Ronnie, with a twisted little smile. ‘If I only had a dirty book you’d have the full set.’
Ronnie with a dirty book! Oliver tried to smile back, but tears were blurring his eyes and his cheekbones hurt. Ronnie was his own age, just seventeen. He’d endured the training, all the horrors of Varna, only to die now when the adventure was just starting and everything about to be worthwhile.
A voice called ‘Come on, chum!’ and he turned to see Jordan hanging from the ladder to look for him in the gloom. ‘Your mare’s on the boat and bloody Jarvis is on the prowl.’
Terror shot through him, and his whole body twitched with the urge to leap up and run. He called back ‘All right!’ and looked doubtfully at Ronnie.
‘You go,’ said Ronnie, still smiling. ‘I’ll see you at Sebastopol.’
Mrs Jarvis smiled too. ‘You’d better. If “bloody Jarvis” is on the prowl …’
He grinned sheepishly, tucked his new possessions under his arm, and gave a last look down at his friend. Mrs Jarvis was brushing the sweaty hair from his eyes and whispering ‘There, my love,’ in a soft Cornish voice that made him want to cry. He reached out to grasp Ronnie’s dry hand in his own, said, ‘God bless you, old fellow,’ and turned hurriedly away before the tears could fall.
‘Good luck, old man,’ said Ronnie, and ‘Good luck,’ called Mrs Jarvis. ‘B’ Troop said it too as he passed them, ‘Good, luck, Trooper. Good luck!’ He crammed Ronnie’s things into his own valise, snatched up his saddle and bolted for the ladder, but the voices calling ‘Good luck! Good luck!’ followed him all the way into the sunlight of the world above.
The flatboat heaved as the last horse was swung over the side, and Ryder had to stamp hard to keep his footing. If it was like this in the lee of the Jason, how the hell would it be in the crowded mass of boats and rafts that passed for the open sea? One slip on this wet deck could break a horse’s legs, and they were short of remounts as it was.
The horses they did have weren’t in the best of condition. That was Bolton’s bloody Bobbin coming down now, a temperamental little mare who’d never been broken properly, but even she lay inert in the sling, legs stuck
out stiffly for whatever ground she’d be plonked on next. The sailors patted her soothingly as they removed the harness and led her over to Bolton’s eager hands, and Ryder took some comfort in their steady, sure-footed movements. At least they had trained men with them on the trip.
It was more than he could say of their officers. Poor Cornet Hoare was skidding hopelessly over the waterlogged boards and had to grab the coxswain’s arm to stop himself falling. ‘I say!’ he said breathlessly. ‘It wasn’t like this at Varna!’ The boy was reliable enough to follow steady orders, but the only other officer boarding with their section was Captain Marsh himself, a man of such opaque simplicity he was generally known as ‘Bog’. The farrier-sergeant had already appealed to him about the conditions, but Marsh’s answer was that they’d been ordered ashore, they would go ashore, and the men would just have to make certain there were no accidents.
The men. Ryder studied them as they stood at the heads of their frightened beasts, and felt his confidence sink. From a distance they’d look magnificent, the dark blue jackets accentuating their slim figures and double white overall stripe exaggerating their height, but the yellow and scarlet belts were loose on shrunken waists and the faces beneath the oilskin-covered shakos were a dull grey. They were worn down by months of ill treatment, poor rations, and dysentery, and God knew if they could be counted on in an emergency.
Like this one. The right side was the weakness, and he sighed at the sight of that prize prig Polly Oliver right at the front. Blond and beardless, bright-eyed and oozing pride in his new good-conduct stripe, he’d be as much use as a fly-swat. No, what was needed at the end of that line was bulk, something more like the blubber-lipped ox next to him, who still had bits of peach in his beard even on parade. ‘Fisk!’ he said. ‘Change places with Oliver. Now. Second rank too, Prosser outside, Bolton inside.’
The rear rank should have been safe with Sullivan on the end, but that was before the last day in Varna. Big Joe Sullivan, solid as stone, but he’d got drunk over cards with Bloomer of the 7th and been given fifty lashes for supposedly striking that bastard Jarvis. His back would still be in ribbons, but the real damage was inside, visible only in the hunched body and lowered head that refused to look anyone in the face. Ryder stepped close and muttered, ‘You’re not fit, Joe, get back on board.’
‘I’m fit, Corp,’ said Sullivan, but without looking up. ‘I’m fit.’
Ryder understood. ‘At least take the pack off. We can pile it with the valises.’
Sullivan mumbled something incoherent, but he did lower his broad shoulder to slide the heavy haversack to the ground.
But a second thump echoed it, a man descending from the ladder behind. The tension in the ranks told Ryder at once who it was, and even the sailors stopped chattering to look. He listened to the heavy footsteps prowling slowly to the front, and turned with resignation to face Troop Sergeant-Major Jarvis.
Jarvis wasn’t tall, but he held himself so rigid that few of his troopers would have believed it. The massive shoulders and thrust-out chest were daunting enough, but even his face seemed swollen by the excess flesh that formed folds in the whiskered jowls and pouches under the hard little eyes. Everyone on the flatboat watched as he rounded the ranks, stuck his crop under his arm, strained higher on his toes, and stopped in front of Ryder.
Ryder said, ‘Sar’nt-major,’ and stood to attention. The deck was sopping, the whole platform heaving, but Jarvis would put him on a charge if he didn’t do it perfectly. Jarvis would put him on a charge for breathing if he could.
The sergeant-major’s eyes crawled over him, searching for that elusive excuse to make him jump. His gaze lingered on the dark shadow of the jaw, visibly burning with resentment at the new regulations that allowed such a sight on his parade, then slid away to the ranks of the men behind. At once he stiffened, and pointed his crop at Fisk. ‘These men are out of order! Put them back at once.’
Ryder was careful to keep his voice low, nothing to make the NCO feel threatened in front of the troop. ‘Yes, Sar’nt-major, I thought it better to strengthen the outside.’
Jarvis must have heard him, but he wasn’t passing up a chance to make the corporal he’d never wanted look a fool. ‘Speak up, Ryder, don’t be shy. Tell us your opinion.’
Prosser and Moody were already grinning. Ryder lifted his chin and said it again, louder. ‘I thought it better to strengthen the outside.’
Jarvis smiled broadly. ‘You’re a corporal, you’re not required to think!’ Moody sniggered obediently and Prosser added an extra-loud guffaw.
Ryder ignored them. ‘Look at the swell, Sar’nt-major; no one else is landing cavalry. The farrier-sergeant’s worried, and we need to take precautions.’
The laughter faded and died. In the sudden quiet the midshipman could be heard addressing the sailors. ‘And watch that baggage! It’s going to be rough, see, it needs to be dead centre to trim the boat.’
Every head turned to Jarvis. The sergeant-major reddened dangerously and swung round on Ryder. ‘You think you know better than our officers, do you? Well, do you?’
A three-year-old knew better than their officers. ‘No, Sar’nt-major.’
‘No,’ said Jarvis, nodding emphatically. ‘I gave you an order, Corporal. Now execute it. At the double!’
At the double. The boat was swaying beneath them, but men and horses scrambled frantically to get back in their original places. The movement immediately exposed the rank behind, and this time Jarvis didn’t bother with words. He pointed the crop at Sullivan’s pack, looked on impassively as the man stoically reworked it onto his mutilated back, then strutted complacently on down the line. Ryder watched him with loathing, but could only lead his own horse to the right flank and stand in silence like the rest.
It was too late for anything else. The midshipman was clearly anxious to get under way before the conditions worsened, and waited only for Captain Marsh to take his place before giving the signal to cast off. The tow-boats hauled, the platform heaved, men staggered and righted themselves, and horses whinnied in alarm. Even Marsh said ‘By Jove, bit frisky, ain’t it?’ but they were already committed, every stroke pulling them further and further from the Jason’s side. The walls of the anchored fleet receded around them as if they were emerging from a town into open country, and under his feet Ryder felt the full roll of the sea.
He called down the line, ‘Arms through bridoon reins, boys, keep those horses steady,’ but the boys were even shakier, the neat lines rocking and buckling with every heave of the swell. Even the sailors grimaced as they looked over their shoulders at the water-traffic, and he knew that sailors, like soldiers, had rarely learned to swim.
‘Bit crowded, ain’t it?’ said Marsh, as they skirted a raft of Guards only to find a huge artillery flatboat heaving up beside them. ‘Here, Middy, why are we packed so close?’
The midshipman kept his eyes on the artillery raft. ‘Not us, sir, it’s the Frogs. We had a landing plan and a buoy to mark it, but the French have sneaked out and moved the buoy.’
‘By Jove,’ said Marsh, struggling to digest this treachery on the part of their allies. ‘Given themselves more room, eh?’
The midshipman shrugged. ‘So they say. God knows where the Turks will land, they’ll be lucky if we’ve left them a puddle.’
‘Never mind the Johnnies,’ called the irrepressible Jordan. ‘Where’s Russ? Looks like we called a war and nobody came.’
Laughter rippled round the boat, but Ryder was watching the approaching shore and didn’t feel inclined to join in.
‘Nobody?’ he said. ‘Look again, Jordan. Look at the top of the hill.’
Everyone turned, and the raft was suddenly silent but for the gentle washing of surf. The beach ahead was teeming with red uniforms, but there it was again, a little white flash on the slopes above, a grey blur, then another flash. There were a handful of riders on the horizon, men waiting placidly on horseback, but above their seated figures protruded long-hafted lance
s with blades that glinted in the sun. They weren’t in the uniform of an official Host, they wore grey fur hats rather than shakos, but there was no mistaking them all the same. Cossacks. Not pictures in The Times or Punch, the real thing, just sitting there watching them. Russian Cossacks.
A low murmur began to buzz about the boat. ‘Not many, are there?’ said Hoare cheerfully. ‘They must be awfully windy to see what’s below.’
They didn’t look it. Five men in rifle range of thousands, but they trotted along as calmly as gentlemen on Rotten Row, and Ryder saw uneasily that one in a green frock-coat was stopping to write in what looked like a book. What made them so damned confident? Was there a whole army of them just behind those green, inviting hills?
A shout wrenched him back to the flatboat. The coxswain was yelling and waving as the artillery float lurched towards them, a gun rolling loose in its moorings. The raft heaved as the boats tried to turn, horses neighed, men stumbled and cursed, then a violent jolt, a sudden drop, the smashing of wood, and the howitzer came crunching through their side.
The coxswain hauled on a tow-rope, sailors wrestled with the great 24-pounder that was worth all their lives put together, but the platform was tilting like a see-saw, men and horses tumbling towards the rising waves. The troop’s right flank was breaking, Sullivan gone and his horse with him, both hurled outboard without a cry. Oliver screamed, ‘Take her, take her!’ and threw his mare’s reins at Fisk even as he slid over the wood towards the foaming sea. Ryder grabbed for him, but the wet sleeve scorched through his hand, Oliver gone, then a blow smashed him sideways as the mare fell after. Fisk had missed her, but at least he understood at last; he was turning with bent knees to hold back the rest.
Ryder swung left. Jordan and Moody had control, that end steady, but Bolton’s mare was screaming and rearing on the right, scattering men in fear of her hooves. Jarvis bawled ‘Stand steady there!’ but the mare was already through them and crashing over the flatboat’s shattered side. Hoare’s horse was next, and the cornet following, sixteen years old and trying to halt a stallion of seventy stones weight. Ryder flung him backwards, and slid his own haversack to the deck. His shako, sword-belt and cap-box were already off, but there was no time for the boots. Men and horses were struggling and splashing in the water, trapped between two boats pinned together by the anchor of a howitzer barrel. Ryder thrust Wanderer’s reins into Fisk’s hands, made for the broken side, and plunged into the sea.
