Crimea

by Malcolm Archibald

  He shook his head; those days were long gone now.

  It was quite a domestic scene, a score of naked men engaged in washing their uniforms, exchanging crude banter and raucous laughter under the sky of an enemy country. It was hard to imagine they were only three miles from a scene of slaughter and agony, and even now there were hundreds of sick and wounded only quarter of a mile along the coast.

  Jack noticed Coleman and Thorpe, with Ogden and Logan in a muttering huddle just above the tide. Coleman looked up when he saw Jack and gave a greasy smile.

  'What's happening, men?' Jack waded through the surf. 'You are all very intent there.'

  'Nothing, sir,' Coleman put both hands behind his back as the others scattered along the beach.

  'Come back here!' Jack felt more like a schoolmaster than a pupil as he called his errant men together. They came reluctantly, with guilty grins or even more tell-tale total lack of expression.

  'Hand it over, Coleman!' Jack put out his hand.

  'What, sir?'

  'Whatever it is you are concealing behind your back. Come on now: hand it over.'

  'It's nothing, sir.' Coleman produced both hands but was unable to stop the small sound of something landing on the shingle.

  'Step away, man!' Jack ordered.

  O'Neill pushed Coleman aside. A rough handkerchief lay on the shingle, wrapped around something. Jack picked it up and unfastened the bow on top. There were a few copper coins inside.

  'These are Russian,' Jack said. 'You've been looting.'

  Coleman nodded. 'Everybody does it,' he said, defensively. 'Officers as well as the men.'

  Jack remembered the two golden statues he had removed from the Burmese temple. He felt the other men crowd around him and knew they waited to see what he would do. Officially looting was probably frowned on. He could put Coleman on a charge and Snodgrass would probably have him flogged. But that would be grossly unfair if others were equally guilty and considering that he had done the same thing in Burma.

  'Where did this come from?' He already knew the answer.

  'The Russian bodies,' Coleman muttered. 'We never stole from the wounded,' he said, 'only the dead and they don't need it. Besides, it would have only got buried with them so where's the harm?'

  Where indeed? Soldiers had always looted; it was one of the traditions of war, one of the very few perquisites they had for risking life and limb for the glory of Empire and the profit of industrialists and company shareholders who took none of the risks and pocketed all of the profits. Profits, Jack told himself, which were ten thousand, no, a hundred thousand times more than this small collection of copper coins. Profits that men such as Coleman would never see in their lifetime and could probably not comprehend. And what was the difference between taking a few coins from a dead enemy and stealing carts from live Allies?

  'The Duke of Wellington used to hang looters,' he said.

  Coleman shifted uncomfortably. Shorn of his brave uniform he looked scrawny, a battered child of the slums with a concave belly and gaunt face. The other men were in little better physical shape, thin, some with ribs showing through their skin, while Ogden was brawny, with a bare patch on his hairy chest. Jack frowned, seeing the mark of a brand there: BC – bad character. He had been in the army before he came to the 113th. That was worth knowing.

  Jack realised that he had been staring at Coleman for a full minute while the thoughts ran through his head. The poor man looked terrified. He raised his voice. 'Bring me all that you have stolen!'

  One by one the men shuffled forward and put their takings on the ground at his feet. They were all roughly the same; a few copper coins or a single silver coin; a leather pocket-book; a battered silver watch; a silk handkerchief that must have come from an officer and a small notepad.

  'Did you divide this all fairly?' Jack asked.

  'Yes, sir,' Thorpe replied.

  'Who was in charge?'

  'I was, sir,' O'Neill said.

  Jack took a deep breath. He could hear the hushing of the sea above the nervous breathing of the men. 'I thought as much.' He lifted the notepad and ruffled through the pages. 'Where did this come from?'

  'That Russian officer that the Bishop found, sir,' Thorpe said and added generously, 'you can have it if you like.'

  'Thank you.' Jack did not hide the sarcasm although it was probably wasted on these men. He looked around at the apprehensive faces; he was their officer, responsible for their mental and moral well-being as much as for their physical behaviour. 'You all know that looting is not allowed…'

  'Oh look at all the naked men!'

  The female voice had a startling effect on the 113th. Soldiers who had faced all the horrors of the Burmese jungle and were ready to face Russian bayonets and artillery started covered themselves and turned away from the two women who rode slowly past.

  Jack had a brief glimpse of a strikingly handsome dark-haired girl and her older, frowning companion, and then he reached for his uniform trousers and began to haul them on. Still wet from the sea, they clung to his legs, so he staggered, reached out for support, realised he had grabbed hold of the rump of the older woman's horse, let go and fell full on his face on the shingle. He rolled over on his back, still fighting to pull up his tight trousers.

  'Oh don't get dressed on our behalf,' the dark-haired beauty ran her gaze over him.

  The older woman kicked in her spurs, so the horse jerked forward. 'Come along Helen. There is nothing for us here. We have no desire to witness a rabble of undressed men.'

  'On the contrary…' Helen's eyes darted from man to man before returning to Jack as he struggled with his half-mast trousers.

  'Come along.' Taking hold of reins of Helen's horse, the older woman guided her away. Helen looked over her shoulder, caught Jack's eye and smiled. He pulled up his trousers, too late to protect his modesty and unable to restrain the flush of utter embarrassment that crossed his face.

  'Well, sir?'

  Jack realised that the men had recovered from their panic at the sight of the women and had reassembled around him.

  'Get your clothes on,' he said, 'in case some other women come cavorting past. We are meant to be fighting the Russians, not providing free entertainment to every blasted female in the Crimea.'

  'Sir,' Coleman said, 'about the looting, sir.'

  Jack looked along the beach. The horsewomen were a good thirty yards away. Dark-haired Helen turned again and waved.

  'Looting?' He dropped the notebook. 'If you find anything that might be of military value let me know. Otherwise, make sure I don't catch you again.'

  Somehow, he knew that had been the correct decision. It may not have been the decision that officers in other regiments would have made, and certainly, his father would not have condoned such actions in the Royal Malverns or Colin Campbell with the Black Watch, but for these men of the 113th, it was right.

  And that dark-haired girl, Helen, possessed the most charming of smiles.

  Chapter Eight

  Crimea

  23 September 1854

  'Have you heard what's happening, Windy?' Elliot made himself as comfortable as he could by sitting on the side of a grave mound.

  Jack looked over the Allied camp, where the French had their neat row of dog-tents, and the British belatedly had erected their own larger tents. 'I know our big-wigs, and the French commanders have been talking.'

  Elliot produced a pewter hip flask, took a swallow and passed it over to Jack. It was brandy, rough, powerful and probably distilled somewhere in the French camp. Trust the French to have all the comforts of home. 'We've been here for days now,' he said, 'with the men falling like flies from cholera and dysentery and Raglan and the Froggies disagreeing what to do next.'

  'I know that much,' Jack returned the flask and refused a second sip.

  'Well,' Elliot tipped the flask down his throat, 'the original idea was for a quick assault on Sebastopol, as you know, teach the Ruskies a lesson and get out before winter comes
in.'

  'I know that much too,' Jack said. 'Is there anything new to add? I have been busy burying bodies and taking the wounded and sick to the beach.'

  Elliot shrugged. 'Well, our Lord Raglan wanted to go straight over the north side of the wall and right into Sebastopol, but Saint what's- his- name thought that was too difficult for his men. And that was after we took the Russians prized defensive position at the Alma too. The Froggies think it would be much trouble, so they say we would have a flank march right around the city and launch a surprise attack from the south.'

  'So we give the Ruskies time to prepare their defences before we take them by surprise,' Jack said.

  'That's the ticket!' Elliot said, 'sound strategy, what?'

  'Could not be better,' Jack said. 'Who needs enemies when we have Allies like that?' This time he accepted the brandy.

  'On your feet,' Fleming was as gloomy as ever. 'We're moving in an hour. Get your men ready.'

  'Where are we going, Flem?' Elliot asked.

  'That's sir to you, and we're going wherever we are ordered.'

  There was a seven-mile march that 23rd September, as the allied army dragged itself from the bloodied banks of the Alma to the River Katcha. They marched in the same formation as before, but with fewer men and less enthusiasm, despite their recent victory.

  'Look at them,' Elliot pointed to the French. 'They had quarter of the fighting we had and a tenth the casualties, and they look like they suffered a defeat rather than they won a triumph.'

  'Blasted French,' Preston said, 'always arse over tip. They probably think Waterloo was a victory and Bonaparte is waiting over the next rise for them.'

  As the army marched, their booted feet flattened the grass and scuffed aside the helmets, muskets and various items of equipment the retreating Russians had abandoned.

  'The Ruskies know they were beaten anyway,' Jack said. He raised his voice, Logan! Put that down!'

  The small man glowered back, with the Russian coat draped across his arm. 'It might come in handy, sir.'

  'It's burning hot, dammit man, and you've collected sufficient Russian accoutrements to set up a market stall!'

  'It gets cold at night, sir…' Logan looked up as O'Neill grabbed the coat, threw it to the ground and emphasised Jack's order with a hefty kick to Logan's backside.

  The Allies halted at the River Katcha, with the men throwing themselves into the stream to cool down so by the time the 113th got there with the 4th Division the water was nothing more than a churned muddy morass.

  'Drink and fill your water bottles,' Snodgrass ordered. 'Don't mind the mud.'

  Jack glanced at O'Neill and frowned. 'The men are thirsty, corporal, but I think they can wait another twenty minutes.'

  'The longer we wait, the worse the condition of the water, sir,' O'Neill's voice was hoarse.

  Jack took a deep breath. He remembered the cool springs of the Malvern Hills; they were a long way from Herefordshire here. 'I don't like my men drinking filthy water, O'Neill.'

  'They're used to it, sir,' O'Neill's eyes darted to the water, with the river slow and fouled between shallow banks. Vultures circled in the brassy sky above, aware that where the army marched, corpses would invariably follow.

  'Sir,' Jack threw a salute to Snodgrass. 'I think I saw a couple of Cossacks on the flank.'

  Snodgrass grunted and looked inland. 'I can't see anything.'

  'No, sir; they could have moved on.' Jack waited a moment. 'Should I send out a few men to see?'

  'You can't trust the men, Windrush. You'd best go and take a look yourself. God knows our cavalry are hard pressed enough.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  Borrowing Elliot's telescope and gathering his men, Jack led them upstream, above the mess created by the allied army to where the water was clear and bright. 'Right lads. Drink, fill your bottles and wash, in that order.'

  'You mentioned Cossacks, sir?' O'Neill reminded.

  'So I did,' Jack agreed. 'I'll take Coleman and Thorpe and have a look while you take care of the men.'

  O'Neill nodded. 'There were no Cossacks, were there? You're a devious devil, sir. A devious devil.'

  'Thank you, Corporal.'

  The banks were higher and steeper upstream, with the scent of wild thyme replacing the foul stinks from the army, so Jack found a small rise, extended the telescope and studied the landscape all around. It was similar to Salisbury Plain, he thought, with rolling downland and few signs of human habitation. Only the odd stunted tree or small bush broke the flower-dotted swathes of grass.

  'Fine country for sheep,' he said to himself and looked for signs of the enemy.

  There were none. The entire Russian army in all its pomp and glory, gun, baggage, hard-riding Cossacks and grey-coated infantry, had vanished. On a whim, he shifted around to study the British Army; looking at regiment after regiment. Jack's gaze shifted from Campbell's kilted Highlanders with their feather bonnets and the bagpipes whose drone and wail he could hear above the buzz of orders and voices, to the scarlet jackets of the line infantry and the gorgeous array of the cavalry.

  The girl seemed to leap into focus in the centre of his lens; dark-haired, tall and astride that light horse, she and the older woman were laughing at something. What was her name again? Helen: that was it. He had never seen a woman so beautiful, but what on earth was such a peach doing with the army? He saw her dismount with a single graceful swing and land with a swish of her skirt that he nearly heard, and then she placed her hand on the arm of an officer.

  Who was that? Jack tried to see, but Helen's horse blocked his view. 'Move aside, damn you,' he muttered.

  'Sir,' O'Neill's voice broke his reverie. 'The men are ready.'

  'Right, Corporal,' Jack said. He glanced at his watch, realised that he had been staring at Helen for about ten minutes and rose to his feet. 'I saw no Russians here.'

  'No, Sir, nor did I,' O'Neill said. Only when they were on their way back did O'Neill say: 'she was a looker, sir.'

  Chapter Nine

  Crimea

  24 September 1854

  'The blasted Russians have scuppered us!' Elliot sounded angry. 'They've placed a whole line of battleships across Sebastopol harbour! Our ships can't get past them or the shore batteries to bombard the town!'

  Jack nodded. 'I'm sure Admiral Dundas can cope with the Russians.'

  'There's more.' To judge by the numbers of officers who clustered around him, Elliot seemed to have access to information that others did not. 'They've built a whole new battery of great massive cannon at the mouth of the Belbek.'

  'And?' Jack asked. 'We're nowhere near the blasted Belbek.'

  'You've got a lot to learn yet, Windrush,' Haverdale said. 'If there is a battery there, that means we can't land supplies. We'll have to find a harbour soon; we can't live off the land here.'

  'It's the Froggies that are panicking,' Elliot enjoyed holding court. 'You know how they're scared of wet water anyway. They want to leave the coast and march inland.'

  'Away from the cover of the Navy?' Jack shook his head. 'That would be plain stupidity.'

  'It's what I heard,' Elliot sounded stubborn.

  'And how the devil did you hear that?' Jack asked. 'Have you got Lord Raglan's private ear?'

  'Something like that,' Elliot said, evasively. 'You'll see if I'm right.'

  Later that day the 113th got their orders in line with the rest of the army. Leaving the coast, they marched inland, precisely as Elliot had predicted.

  'What for are we going this way, sir?' Logan asked as they marched away from the coast. 'We're leaving the ships behind.'

  'I know that Logan,' Jack said, 'Lord Raglan knows what he's doing.' He pretended not to hear Coleman's low comment or Thorpe's shout of derision.

  They marched across the plain with men falling from the heat, cholera or exhaustion and the allied army adding abandoned equipment to that left behind by the retreating Russians.

  'Sir!' Riley said as they crested a ridge above the su
llen River Belbek. 'Over there: it's Sebastopol.'

  Jack was only one of many men who ran to the ridge and peered across. There, a short four miles away, the north wall of Sebastopol loomed up. Jack stared across the open ground toward the city. 'It's very impressive,' he said. And soon we will be smashing that with artillery and our men will be running through the streets, looting and destroying.

  Some of the serene buildings that reminded him of Bath. 'They'll be the barracks,' Elliot told everybody who cared to listen. 'And these are churches,' he pointed out the apparently religious buildings.

  'And these lovely private houses,' Jack said innocently, 'will people live in them?'

  'Yes they will,' Elliot said.

  'And will people worship in the churches?' Jack asked.

  Realising that Jack was teasing him, Elliot closed his mouth. Jack continued to survey the city as the sun gleamed on white stone walls and green roofs, while ships displayed the proud Russian ensign as they floated on water that sparkled silver and blue. The walls looked low, the defences unfinished although hundreds of Russian soldiers and sailors scurried around strengthening them as they watched.

  'We could walk in and take it,' Coleman looked at Jack. 'It's easier than Rangoon sir, or Pegu.' He raised his voice to educate his colleagues, 'in Burma lads, the Burmese had great big stockades to guard their cities; the Ruskies only have walls and incomplete bastions.'

  'The Russians will have garrisoned it well, you mark my words,' Jack said. But why the devil don't we just attack now, before they make the defences stronger? It's only a few miles away, and there's no Russian army in sight.

  'We licked their army,' Logan echoed Jack's thoughts. 'They're beat and running. We can take the bloody place and get back home.'

  'How about it, sir?' Thorpe asked, 'how about doing what you and me did in Burma and lead the regiment across. The other regiments would follow us, and we could win the war right now, sir.'