Crimea

by Malcolm Archibald

  'Oh she would not,' Helen laughed. 'Mother would not approve of me meeting any young man. She has kept me in close confinement these past one-and-twenty years. I have hardly been able to turn without her being there with a warm shawl or a stout pair of boots to protect me from the weather, or a veil to keep the sun from damaging my complexion! And all the time boys of much fewer years were serving in the ranks or donning the uniform of the Queen!'

  'She was doing her best to look after you,' Jack said. 'It must have been hard for her bringing you up safely while surrounded by soldiers and natives.' He felt her shiver and adjusted the shawl around her shoulders.

  'I used to plead with her to send me to school in England,' Helen pulled the shawl further up her neck. 'So I had some measure of freedom.'

  Remembering the confinement and rigid discipline of his school days, and the stiff faces of the crocodiles of school girls that he had seen under the strict control of acid-faced schoolmistresses, Jack was not sure if Helen's life would have been any freer under those regimes. He decided it was better not to disagree with her on such short acquaintance. There would be plenty time for arguments later.

  Later? What am I thinking here?

  They stood side by side without touching, cold under the northerly wind yet neither moving away. Now that Jack had Helen all to himself, he found that the power of speech had deserted him. He had nothing to say except a discussion of military tactics, a conversation about the war or anecdotes of Burma and did not think that any of these subjects would interest her. What is wrong with me?

  'How do you like Balaklava?' It was a terrible question. Luckily Helen either had not heard it, or she brushed it aside as unimportant.

  'Isn't this exciting,' Helen seemed to realise that Jack's conversational topics were limited. 'With all our brave men just waiting to storm the city and the Russians, stubborn in defence, doomed but unable to admit it.'

  'It certainly is something,' Jack was glad to talk about something he understood. His initial enthusiasm died as he guessed she was talking to please him. 'I hope I am not causing you trouble with your mother by meeting you like this. Without a chaperone I mean.' He knew it was clumsy. Convetion dictated that gentlemen did not take out young ladies until they had the permission of the father.

  'Oh never mind her,' Helen dismissed her formidable mother as if she did not matter. 'I don't intend to live my life wrapped in cotton wool. I intend to wear out my life, not rust it out sewing samplers and drawing pictures of pretty flowers. I have had sufficient restriction. I want to be free!' She spread her arms, nearly rapping his nose with her fingers. 'Oh Lieutenant Windrush! I do apologise!'

  'It's perfectly all right,' Jack stepped further away. This evening was not going as he had planned. He stood in silence for a few more minutes with Helen at his side. She shivered.

  'It's getting cold,' she looked at him with wide grey eyes.

  'Yes,' Jack agreed. 'Perhaps you would be warmer back inside the house.' He knew she was disappointed. He did not know what else to say or do. They walked back to her house side by side, not touching, not speaking, both frustrated. When they reached the harbour and saw her house lights burning, Jack was tempted to shake her hand.

  'Well, goodbye,' he said, 'and thank you.'

  'You have nothing to thank me for,' she said, turning away. 'Nor I you.'

  Jack knew that she was crying. He felt sick.

  Chapter Eleven

  Siege of Sebastopol

  October 1854

  The trenches were as cold as before, but Jack's men filed in to replace others of the regiment with a new feeling of determination. It was three days since their first experience in the lines, and each night the Russians had crept forward to capture and kill British soldiers in some sections along the front.

  'Right men,' Jack said. 'Tonight the 113th will help create a new sap and a new line of trenches. It's digging duties for all and for God's sake listen for the Russians!'

  'It's our turn tonight, boys,' Logan said with a grin that would have done credit to a fighting dog. He stamped his boots on the ground. 'Are you ready for them?'

  'They've taken men from all the best regiments,' one grey-haired sergeant said, 'what makes you think it'll be any different with us?'

  Jack was about to reply when Thorpe spoke. 'We're the 113th,' he said.

  'The Baby Butchers,' the sergeant said. 'The men who ran at Chillianwalla.'

  'Maybe you lot bloody ran,' Thorpe said, 'We're the lads of Pegu and Rangoon when you were sitting in quarters swatting mozzies we were fighting the Burmese, and they were harder men that a few bloody Ruskies.'

  'But not as hard as us,' Coleman said, and Jack could not stop his swell of pride. It was a small beginning but a lot better than nothing. His small section of the 113th was beginning to believe in itself. The hardships and sacrifices of Burma had not been in vain.

  The men exchanged banter with the departing company as they took their places in the trenches, grumbling at the cold, the weather, the dark, the sergeants and the officers.

  'They seem happy enough,' Jack said.

  'Oh the lads are always happy when they're complaining,' O'Neill said. 'It's when they stop grousing and start praying that you have to worry.'

  Jack nodded. It was another piece of military lore to add to his store. He counted his men. 'I should have twenty-four,' he said. 'I see twenty-five. I've heard of men avoiding front-line duty; never men coming up for extra duty.' He sighed, 'It's not Mrs Riley come to join us again is it?

  'Oh it's all right, sir,' Riley said. 'It's not Charlotte. It's something that Logan and I came up with.'

  'Logan and you?' Jack looked at the well-spoken soldier, always tidy and well presented, and the disreputable, bitter-eyed Logan who even his colleagues avoided.

  'And Mrs Riley, sir.' Riley said. 'She helped, so in a manner of speaking she is here in spirit if not in body.'

  'I think your lady wife is always with you in spirit,' Jack kept the envy from his voice. 'She helped what, exactly, Riley?'

  'We call him Arthur sir. Mrs Riley thought up the name; it's after the Duke of Wellington.' Riley spoke without emotion, while Logan stood at his side with a wicked grin on his face.

  'Show me,' Jack ordered.

  'Here he is, sir,' Logan grabbed hold of the nearest man and dragged him for Jack's attention. 'It's a dummy sir, made with sandbags and bits of wood and with a uniform on top.'

  'That's the uniform of the 118th,' Jack said. 'How did you get that? No, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know.'

  'They're a bit careless sir,' Logan said. 'They leave things lying around…'

  'I said I don't want to know,' Jack repeated. He examined the dummy. 'It's very lifelike,' he said. 'Who made the face?'

  'That was Charlotte… Mrs Riley, sir,' Riley said. 'She's a wonder with the needle and thread. She used to work in a theatre you see… 'He stopped, no doubt wondering if he had overstepped the line of familiarity between a man from the ranks and an officer.

  'That would explain her ability to pose as a soldier,' Jack murmured. 'So what's your plan?'

  'We don't have a plan, sir,' Riley admitted. 'We don't know how the Russians operate. All we know is that they grab our men from the trenches and murder them. Well then, they can grab Arthur and murder him if they like.'

  'Except our Arthur has a nice wee surprise for him, sir' Logan said.

  'What sort of surprise, Logan? No, maybe it's best that I don't know,' Jack said. 'Just ensure that none of our men is hurt.'

  He moved on, checking the men had loaded their muskets, and the locks were clean, that the bayonets were lightly greased so they would slide easily from scabbards, that the sandbags gave adequate protection and everybody had their meagre rations. He posted three men to keep watch on the dark distance between the trench and Sebastopol and ensured there was a rota, so the sentries were relieved at regular intervals.

  'And now we wait,' he said, checking his revolver was loaded. 'And
we dig.'

  Every night was darker and colder than the preceding, with a wind that cut like the lash of a nagaika, the Cossack whip, but also concealed the noise of pick and shovel as the lines inched closer, spadeful of dirt by spadeful of rocky soil. Jack led the first of the working parties, carrying gabions, the cylindrical wickerwork baskets that the men filled with earth and positioned in front of them to provide cover from Russian shot as they dug.

  'I hope we take this Sebastopol place soon,' Elliot sounded nervous as he led forward the second working party. He looked up, 'who's that man?'

  Jack glanced along the line of trenches. His men were either digging or huddled against the gabions, presenting as little a target as possible for any Russian shot, except for one whose head and shoulders thrust above the others. 'Oh that's our latest recruit,' he said. 'Arthur Wellington.' He grinned at the expression on Elliot's face. 'Don't you worry about him. He's in good hands.'

  'The Russians will get him…' Even as Elliot spoke, the dummy lifted into the air and slithered headfirst toward the distant walls of Sebastopol. Elliot's voice rose an octave. 'God help him!'

  Jack put a steadying hand on Elliot's shoulder. 'Wait, Elliot.'

  'We must help him,' Elliot shook off Jack's hand, drew his revolver and fired three quick shots into the dark.

  'Wait,' Jack's words were unavailing as nervous soldiers followed Elliot's example and musketry broke out along the British front, with the muzzle flares giving surreal images of levelled muskets, gaunt-faced British soldiers, and the line of trenches stretching as far as the gun battery.

  'Cease fire!' Jack shouted. 'Cease fire!'

  The explosion took them all by surprise. Jack reeled back as something blew up with an immense noise and an eye-scorching flash less than twenty yards in front of the trench. He had a momentary vision of a man flying in the air, heard somebody scream and then there was silence and the stink of burned gunpowder.

  'What the devil…?'

  'I told you our Arthur had a wee surprise, sir,' Logan said. 'He had fifty pounds of gunpowder stuffed in his breeks. We had planned on waiting till the Ruskies had gathered him in before blowing him up so we would get all of them, but somebody started to shoot early, sir.'

  'It was a good plan,' Jack approved.

  'Permission to go over the trench sir and see what's happened?' Riley had no expression on his face.

  'I'm coming too Riley, and Logan, you and Hitchins come with me.'

  Jack rolled over the lip of the trench, keeping low and quiet, remembering similar expeditions outside Pegu in Burma. The same mixture of excitement and sickness returned, and the same desire to excel, to gain promotion and return to a position of respect that was hard to obtain within the lowly 113th.

  The acrid stench of powder smoke drifted past, augmented by a soft, low moaning. Jack moved toward the noise, jinking slightly in case some sharp-eyed Russian rifleman was searching for a target. He came to the first body in a matter of minutes, a slender man in a dark grey coat, missing the head and one arm. The second corpse was a few yards beyond, shredded nearly beyond recognition.

  'Arthur done his stuff then,' Logan regarded the bodies with neither repugnance nor regret. 'These boys won't be back to murder our lads.'

  'Sir,' Riley lifted something from the ground. 'This is interesting. This may be how the Russians captured our soldiers.'

  Jack stepped across. Riley held a long pole with a thin flexible loop of whalebone at the end.

  'See, sir?' Riley held the loop open. 'This is large enough to slip over a man's head. The Russians must have crept up to the trenches, found a man, dropped this loop over his head and pulled him from the trench to bayonet him.'

  'Murdering bastards,' Logan stepped over another Russian body.

  'Sir,' Hitchins said. 'There's somebody alive here.'

  The man lay on his back with his uniform blackened and torn and both hands covering his face. 'He's a Russian, sir,' Riley said. 'Burned by the explosion.'

  'Bring him back,' Jack said. 'Our medical people might be able to patch him together.'

  'Here's another Ruski, sir,' Logan said. There was the sound of a kick. 'Up you get, you!' He pushed a tall man over on his side. 'You're no' deid; you can stand.'

  'This one's an officer, sir, or he's wearing an officer's uniform anyway.' Riley said. 'Not sure about the rank.'

  The officer's uniform was torn and his face marked by gunpowder and smoke. Broad and erect, he looked haughtily down at Logan through eyes made paler by comparison to his smoke-blackened face. 'Who are you?'

  'Lieutenant Jack Windrush, 113th Foot,' Jack said.

  The Russian gave a little start as he looked at Jack and then averted his eyes and said nothing. Logan lifted his bayonet hopefully as the officer staggered. Jack shook his head and pushed the blade down.

  'Best hurry sir,' Hitchins said, 'lest the Russians send out a search party to find their men.'

  Jack nodded. He had a wounded Russian infantryman and a dazed Russian officer. One had to be cared for, and the other handed over for interrogation.

  Logan grunted 'we could wait for the Ruskies, sir. Get some of our own back after them firing at us for days and days.' He tapped the lock of his musket hopefully.

  'No,' Jack decided. 'I appreciate your enthusiasm Logan, but there'll be other opportunities. We'll get these prisoners back.'

  Riley and Hitchins helped support the wounded Russian, with Jack leading them back to the trenches and Logan pushing the officer before him, glancing over his shoulder and apparently hopeful of meeting a Russian patrol.

  'What do you have there?' Snodgrass' asked.

  'A couple of Russian prisoners, sir,' Jack said.

  Snodgrass raised his eyebrows. 'I don't think some stray Russians will be any good to us.'

  'One is an officer,' Jack said, 'I'm not sure what rank.'

  'Oh, a gentleman.' Snodgrass' attitude changed when he saw the officer. 'We will clean him up and keep him.' He glanced at the wounded man without interest. 'Bring the officer to the rear and let's have a look at him.' He hesitated, 'just put the other one back over the trench and let his men come for him if they will.'

  'He's wounded, sir.' A moment earlier, Logan had been willing to bayonet any Russian in sight; now he stood up to Major Snodgrass, a man far above him in rank and social standing. 'If we put him back, he'll just die, and that's not right.'

  Logan typified the British soldier, Jack thought; one never knew how they were going to react. They merged utter callousness in battle with a soft heart possibly based on their harsh childhood. They could empathise with the enemy when they were not busily devising the best ways of slaughtering them.

  Snodgrass stared at Logan for a second, as if looking at something unpleasant he had inadvertently stepped in. 'What's your name?' His voice was deceptively gentle.

  'Logan.' The small man did not lower his glare. For one horrible second, Jack thought he was going to ask: 'what's yours?'

  'I'll have you flogged for impudence,' Snodgrass said, just as the Russian artillery fired again.

  The first ball passed overhead with a sound similar to ripping canvas. The second struck the back of the trench wall three yards from where Snodgrass stood, with the impact knocking sandbags from the parapet facing the enemy and the parados at the rear, which was intended to afford some protection from shells landing behind them. Snodgrass sprawled in the mud at the bottom of the trench with his hat falling into a puddle.

  Jack helped Snodgrass to his feet as Logan remained at attention and watched, expressionless.

  'The Russian officer may have important information,' Snodgrass tried to dust himself down and succeeded only in spreading Crimean mud over his tunic. 'We'll get him behind the lines so we can interrogate him.'

  'You can take them both, sir,' Jack said, but Snodgrass was already hurrying toward the sap. 'Sir, I can't leave my men here without me.'

  'I'll look after them, sir.' Elliot said.

  Jack hesit
ated until Haverdale appeared. 'The Major ordered you to accompany him, Windrush. You'd better go.'

  'My men…'

  'We'll be fine, sir,' O'Neill said.

  'Elliot and I will look after them for the few minutes you will be away.' Haverdale pointed to the sap down which Snodgrass had disappeared. 'Go.'

  Perhaps because of the loss of their patrol, the Russian gunners began a fusillade, firing shot after shot toward the British lines, concentrating on the section held by the 113th. The men crouched behind the sandbags, held their hats close on to their heads and swore their hatred of the Russian gunners, the Crimea, their officers and anything else that came to mind.

  'Bastards know exactly where we are,' Logan said. He turned around and gestured in the direction of Sebastopol. 'Just you wait! We'll get you!'

  'Come on Logie!' Riley pulled him away, 'they'll keep.'

  'Halloa!' the surgeon was fat and cheerful despite the row of bodies outside his tent. 'What's to do?' He held up a lantern. 'What's this?'

  'A Russian soldier,' Snodgrass said. 'We captured him prowling outside our lines.'

  'You werenae there to capture him!' Logan said until Ryan nudged him hard in the ribs.

  'Prowling was he now?' the surgeon had a long look at the Russian. 'He must have prowled into an explosion.' When he looked up his eyes were shrewd. 'And as we are not firing at them that poses an interesting question…'

  'That does not matter,' Snodgrass said. 'I want him patched up, so he is fit to answer questions.'

  'He knows nothing,' the Russian officer said shortly. 'He is a moujik.'

  'He may well be only a peasant, sir, but you are not,' Snodgrass said. 'May we have your name and rank?'

  The officer gave an abrupt bow. As he straightened up, light from the surgeon's lantern highlighted his face, so Jack saw him properly for the first time. Mud and powder smoke smeared the broad face, while the moustache was a lot less neat than the last time he had seen it, but there was no mistaking the face with those light, bright eyes.

  Stevensen. This is the Swedish diplomat whose house I broke into in Malta.