Crimea

by Malcolm Archibald

  When Jack had first viewed Balaklava, it had been a picturesque seaside resort with lovely little villas and colourful gardens. Now, as the only port for the British Army, the character had entirely altered. Shipping packed the harbour while a thousand different types of stores filled the wharves. High ranking British staff officers had taken over many of the best houses. British staff officers. Bluejackets and redcoats swarmed everywhere, talking and joking with the Crimean women in their colourful costumes who seemed to accept the occupation phlegmatically or tried to sell food and luxury items to the British at ten times their proper value.

  The stores were piled haphazardly as if the seamen had merely unloaded them from the ships and left them, uncaring if they reached their destination or not. Cases and kegs, barrels and boxes were side by side at the dockside with cannon-balls, waggon wheels and rotting vegetables.

  'I see you met her then?' At first, Jack did not recognise the woman who spoke to him. Charlotte Riley wore a Tatar fez on her head with a bash maram, a long gauze scarf that covered the back of her head and descended to her shoulders.

  Jack glanced at Helen, who had hardly uttered a word on their journey from the camp. 'We met,' he said briefly.

  Charlotte was carrying a large jug of water. She looked from Helen to Jack and back. 'Not with any great friendship, I see.'

  Helen's smile was as broad as ever. 'He is the most awkward man, Mrs Riley,' she said brightly. 'He sent you with a note to my servant to arrange an assignation, and then stood as tongue-tied as a mule.'

  'All men are awkward, Miss Helen,' Charlotte said. 'My Riley was as bad. It comes from these all-boys schools you see. They are fine at their boy's games of war and sport but when it comes to anything important… 'She rolled her eyes. 'They can be frightfully threadbare. We have to lead them by the nose all the time.'

  'Excuse me, ladies,' Jack felt himself flushing with embarrassment at being the subject of their conversation.

  'Oh you are excused, Lieutenant Windrush,' Charlotte gave a bright smile. 'Don't mind our women-chatter. You go about your duty.'

  'He can't' Helen said, 'He needs Maida, my horse, for that.'

  'If he was not a gentleman,' Charlotte said gently, 'he would take it from you.'

  'I'd like to see him try,' Helen said hotly.

  Charlotte smiled and unfastened a triangular amulet from around her neck. 'You would like no such thing,' she said. 'However, you may like this, Miss Maxwell. It is a local Tatar amulet that fends off the evil eye. In your case, the eye is in you both.' She shook her head. 'You two are your own worst enemies.'

  'What do you mean, Mrs Riley?' Helen asked.

  Charlotte straightened up. 'I have a word for the private ears of you two. Lieutenant Jack, Miss Helen, is shy around women, especially you, and you are too stubborn to help him.' She faced Jack. 'And Miss Maxwell is not shy at all but does not know how to break your reserve, Lieutenant Windrush.' Charlotte threw to amulet to Jack, who caught it with his left hand. 'Give it to her when you can talk.' She gave a small curtsey. 'And you, Miss Maxwell, are devilish self-willed. Accept the amulet when you can listen where there are no words.'

  'How is that possible?' Helen looked puzzled.

  'You will learn, or you will never hold a man.' Charlotte lifted her chin. 'Have the Russians killed that Major Speck yet, Lieutenant?'

  'We don't have a Major Speck,' Jack held the amulet.

  'Snodgrass.'

  'He's still alive,' Jack said. Why call him Major Speck?

  'For the time being,' Charlotte walked away, her hips swinging.

  'Speck means a bad thing,' Helen said quietly. 'I believe that Charlotte means some mischief to your Major Snodgrass.'

  Jack nodded. 'I am aware of that. It is fortunate that I cannot think of any situation where she will be in a position to do that,' he said.

  They were silent; both occupied with their thoughts as Jack searched through the accumulation on the wharves, found the military stores and signed for twenty pairs of soldiers' boots. He tried to avoid any contact with Helen as he silently draped them across the back of Maida.

  'I can hold them in place,' Helen said, 'if you don't mind me interfering in your duty.'

  'Thank you,' Jack said. I can't think of anything else to say.

  They began the silent walk back. With every step, Jack dragged his mind for some method of breaking this impasse, some phrase that could ease the tension between them. We're nearly there, and we haven't spoken! What can I say? All I can think of was Wellington's quote: the only thing I am afraid of is fear. Jack stopped short: that is entirely relevant. I am scared, not of Helen, but of looking foolish, and what is more foolish than allowing this opportunity to talk to her to slip through my fingers?

  'Miss Maxwell,' he said formally, as she looked down at him. 'I have no words to express my feelings.'

  'I am aware you have no words, Lieutenant Windrush.' She said no more. They stood on the outskirts of the camp with the light fading and the night-picket filing past.

  'I have taken an extraordinary liking to you, Miss Maxwell.' Although they were true, he had to force the words out.

  'Thank you, Lieutenant Windrush.' She bowed from the saddle, meeting his gaze, not smiling.

  'I think this would be a suitable time to hand over this.' Jack passed the amulet up to her. 'I will try to talk now.'

  She caught it, fumbled and held it tight. 'I have been listening to your silence for the past five miles.' Releasing the reins, she reached down toward him. 'Jack…'

  'Windrush!' Colonel Maxwell appeared from behind the tents. 'Is my daughter safe?'

  'Of course, sir,' Jack said.

  'Good, then get you to the front. One of my other lieutenants has gone sick, and I need an officer to replace him.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack caught Helen's eye. 'I have to go; duty calls.'

  'It always will,' she said, with infinite sadness in her voice.

  'As you can see,' Dearden kept his voice low, as befitted the perilous position of being in the front line, 'the Second Division maintains a chain of outposts to guard the flank of the army.'

  'Yes sir,' Jack looked out on the bleak uplands of the Crimea, compared the landscape to the lush lands of Burma and wished he was back at Pegu or Rangoon. With Helen at his side.

  'There was a bit of a battle fought here the other day when you were recovering from the affair at Balaklava. We gave the Russians the right-about-turn and chased them back.'

  'I heard of that, sir,' for an instant Jack cursed that once again the 113th had not been involved, and then he remembered that the affairs of the 113th were no longer vital to him. He was Lieutenant Windrush of the 118th now and all the evil times of the past were behind him.

  'The Russians seem to have no name for this upland area,' Rearden said, 'so we call it Mount Inkerman or the Inkerman Heights, and that is the name by which the world will know it henceforth and forever.' He gave a small smile, 'or until somebody higher up than me decides to change it.'

  Inkerman Heights was a rough area of ravines and ridges, with the Tchernaya Valley below. Unlike the grassy plain over which the Allies had marched only six weeks before, the Heights were green with tangled scrubby bushes and low oak trees with spreading branches.

  'Take notice of these two prominent heights,' Dearden indicated two higher points in the undulating landscape. 'The smaller one is known as Shell Hill, although some call it Cossack Hill and others Funk Point. Why Funk Point, you may wonder?'

  'I did wonder, sir.'

  'It is Funk Point because that is the most forward of our positions; beyond that are the Russians.'

  Jack nodded, 'I see, sir. The men are in a bit of a funk when they are there.'

  'More apprehensive than afraid,' Dearden qualified his meaning of the term 'funk'.

  'Yes, sir.'

  'The even higher one slightly to the south is Home Ridge.' Dearden waited until Jack nodded to ensure he had identified the hills. 'Now,' Dearden continued, 'this who
le flank is dangerous because the Russians can approach us from the city or the great spaces beyond. The Heights themselves, as you see, are cut up by a brace of ravines called the Careenage Ravine and the Quarry Ravine. The latter holds the Post Road into Sebastopol.'

  'I see sir,' Jack scanned the rough ground, 'So the Russians can come at us from the city or through these ravines.'

  'That's correct,' Dearden said, 'so pray there is no mist or fog to hide them, although with winter coming on…' He left the rest unsaid.

  'As you see, the Second Division holds Home Ridge; it is our temporary home until we capture Sebastopol. We have forward pickets out there,' Dearden nodded to the wind-swept, bush laden uplands. 'If the Russians attack, the pickets will hold until they ascertain their strength. If they can deal with them, then that is what they will do. If not, then they will fall back on our main position here,' Dearden indicated the line of shallow trenches, periodically supported by cannon in sandbagged breastworks.

  'It does not seem very well fortified sir, given the importance of the position.'

  Dearden nodded. 'I am aware of that. What we do have is an earthen bank in the Quarry Ravine where the Post Road meets a smaller road. We call the earthwork the Barrier, although any half determined rush by a company or two could take it. We also have the two-gun Sandbag Battery on that hill spur over there, the Kitspur. The guns are no longer there, but the redoubt is handy to shelter the men on a wet night.'

  'Is that it, sir?'

  'Not quite,' Dearden said. 'There is one sandbagged redoubt on that hill there,' he handed Jack the telescope. 'See it? It is between both the ravines and to the flank of the Barrier. If the Russians took that, they could position a battery there that would catch our men at the Barrier in the flank and make them untenable.'

  'Does it have a name, sir?'

  'Indeed. We call that the Fatal Redoubt.' Dearden smiled. 'The name speaks for itself.'

  'Can't we dig more emplacements sir and strengthen the defences?'

  'Who would dig them?' Rearden looked around. 'The regiment lost scores to cholera even before we got here, took casualties at the Alma and are losing men to disease and the weather every day. Unless General Raglan can send us a couple of hundred Turks to act as labourers we just don't have the manpower. We barely have enough troops to man the trenches without expending their energy in digging. We are down to less than five hundred men, Windrush.' Dearden sighed, 'But complaining never won a war.'

  'No, sir.'

  Dearden looked at him levelly. 'We can always fight a battle, Windrush, and win it by God, but we are poor at sieges and taking cities. Let us hope this war is over soon or there won't be a British Army to fight anybody.'

  'You said that we beat them last time they tried here, sir.'

  'That was only a sortie, Windrush. And I happen to know that the Russians are being reinforced. Two divisions of General Dannenburg's 4th Corps are marching in from Bessarabia; that will give the Russians a considerable advantage in men over us.' Dearden's hand was steady as he lit a cheroot. 'Keep the men on their toes, Windrush.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack looked over the terrain and shivered. This Crimea seemed to be hard and unyielding, and the Russian soldiers were brave and skilful soldiers. They would have to take Sebastopol soon, or the winter would be upon them. This campaign was not going as he hoped it would.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Balaklava

  3rd November 1854

  'There's something about to happen,' Helen stood at Jack's side, nearly but not quite touching and with her bonnet tied tightly down against the wind. She pulled her coat around her, adjusted her amulet and shivered. 'I hate this place.' She looked over the harbour of Balaklava with its crowded shipping and the constant bustle. 'I have lived in half the world, and I have never hated a place like I hate this one. I don't like the climate or the people or the place itself.'

  'It's only geography,' Jack said. 'I'm sure you've been in worse places.'

  'India, South Africa, Ireland, Lower Canada, Malta and here,' Helen listed her father's postings and her life. 'India was hot and spicy, South Africa crisp and beautiful, Ireland wet and misty and Malta hot and friendly. Canada was huge and here is cold and bleak and sinister.'

  'And England?' Jack had a sudden longing for the Malvern Hills and the soft mists of Herefordshire.

  'I've never been to England,' Helen said.

  'Never?' Jack looked at her in astonishment. 'So where do you call home? Where are you from?'

  Helen shrugged. 'Here, there and nowhere. Wherever I am; wherever father is stationed. I don't know; does it matter?'

  'Yes; it matters a great deal,' Jack tried to explain. 'You need an anchor, somewhere to hang your hat when things are bad, an escape inside your mind when the dacoits are coming through the jungle for you, and you wonder why you are there and the reason you are fighting. It's a spiritual thing, somewhere to give a meaning to life.'

  Helen shook her head. 'I've never had that. I've spent my life living in military cantonments and such like establishments.' Jack thought she looked most appealing when she wrinkled her nose. 'Probably the regiment is my home if anywhere is.'

  'I have to show you the Malvern Hills,' Jack could not hide his enthusiasm. 'I'll take you there someday. We will climb to the top of the Beacon at night and watch the dawn rise over Worcestershire, with the mist low across the fields and the sun burning it off field by field. We will see the church spires protruding from the greyness, and then the tops of the trees and then, inch by inch and field by field the countryside will reveal itself. The little villages and farmhouses will appear, and the roads and tracks. You'll watch as the entire sweep of the second most beautiful county in the most perfect country on earth.'

  'Second most beautiful? Why not the most beautiful?' Helen looked puzzled.

  'You will see that in the evening,' Jack had been ready for the question. He found talking to her much easier now: perhaps the amulet helped. 'The sun dips over Herefordshire then, toward the blue hills of the Welsh Marches.'

  'If it is so perfect,' Helen asked sweetly, 'why did you leave?'

  'A man has to do his duty,' Jack said.

  She smiled. 'You sound like my father.'

  'He is a good man,' Jack said.

  Helen frowned, 'He is one of the jolliest fellows under the sun, but a good man? She shrugged. 'I cannot judge.' She shivered as the wind blasted icy from the heights to the north. 'It's cold.'

  'It is,' Jack agreed.

  She gave a small smile and shivered. 'You may be a very brave soldier Jack Windrush, but even although you have learned how to talk, you still don't know much about women do you?'

  'I haven't had the chance,' Jack had learned enough to know that honesty was the best policy with Helen.

  Helen's smile widened. 'Well, Mr Lieutenant Jack here is some more free advice for you:

  The lady's waist is 22 inches round

  A gentleman's arm is 22 inches long

  How admirable are thy ways O nature.'

  'Poetry?' Jack was bemused. He shook his head. 'I don't know much poetry: I know Homer…'

  Helen shook her head. 'That was an invitation, you oaf!' She edged slightly closer. 'Now let's try again. I'm cold.'

  'What?'

  When Jack stared at her, she took hold of his arm and wrapped it around her. 'You men! Do you have to be shown everything?'

  Jack was aware of the warmth of her body under his hand. She was firm, yet yielding and infinitely alluring.

  'There; isn't that better?' She smiled up at his face. 'For a while there I thought you were proof against my allurements!'

  'Proof against… 'Jack smiled and tentatively squeezed her closer. It felt good. 'No, Helen, hardly that.'

  They were silent for a few moments, yet happy. The erstwhile awkwardness was diminishing, if not yet entirely gone. Helen broke the spell with a necessary question.

  'When are you going back to the trenches?'

  'I am back tonight,' J
ack said quietly.

  'Be careful,' Helen said. 'Something is going to happen.'

  'You sound so very solemn,' Jack tried to lighten the mood, although he remembered Dearden's warnings about the Russian armies in the interior.

  'No, Jack,' when she twisted within his embrace her eyes were wide and very grey. 'I can feel it. A soldier's daughter gets a feeling for such things. I am certain that there is trouble imminent.'

  Jack nodded. 'Thank you. I will keep alert and make sure my men don't fall asleep.'

  'These Russians are different from us,' Helen said. 'They think differently and feel differently. I know you love England, and all it stands for, but the Russians have an even deeper attachment. To them, they are part of Russia. It is holy, deep in their soul.' She looked up. 'They will not give up their city easily, Jack.'

  'Then we will have to take it from them,' Jack felt a wave of stubbornness.

  She looked up with her mouth slightly parted and sighed. 'Jack: I think you should kiss me now.'

  For one instant Jack had the ridiculous notion of telling her that he had never kissed a girl in his life. Instead, he bent his head closer and allowed her to take the initiative. Her lips were softer than he expected. She is nothing like Myat. Why not?

  'You were reluctant there,' she said, 'but you cannot stand against what I want. Don't you know the truth?'

  'No,' Jack said. I am utterly confused. I want to be with this girl who twists me inside out.

  Helen smiled again and said: 'I hope you like poetry: I am an in a poetical mood and

  A man's a fool who tries by force or skill

  To stay the torrent of a woman's will.

  For when she will, she will, you may depend on't

  And when she won't, she won't, so there's an end on't'