Soldiers in the Mist

by Garry Douglas Kilworth

  Most of the prisoners were sullen men with sunken eyes and pinched looks. They seemed bitter. Whatever they had done was probably not weighing heavily on their consciences. They were more concerned with their own plight, than admitting to any guilt. Most no doubt believed they were being wronged, whether that was the case or not. One, however, was a talkative soldier whose sleeve bore a bright chevron shape which corporal stripes had obviously once covered, the rest of the sleeve’s colour having faded.

  ‘I wouldn’t sit there, sergeant – that’s where we all piss when we need to.’

  Crossman moved out of the corner and said he was obliged to the man for his warning. He moved to another spot, closer to the men. The talkative ex-corporal was a big, raw-boned fellow with huge hands and arms as thick as Crossman’s thighs. He got up and sat down beside the sergeant, who shifted uncomfortably, not wanting company in this black hole of the Crimea.

  ‘Daniel Johnson,’ said the man, extending a hand, which Crossman found himself obliged to shake. ‘I punched an officer. Take no heed of these miserable wretches,’ he nodded at the other three men, ‘they’re all thieves and vagabonds, they are. Don’t turn your back on ’em though, or they’ll steal the back buttons from your trousers.’

  One of the men glared at Johnson, but the large man balled his fist and good-humouredly shook it under the man’s nose.

  ‘Don’t you be gettin’ too big for your boots, you young spud, or you’ll be earnin’ a busted snoot.’ He then turned to Crossman again. ‘What are you in here for, Fancy Jack? Oh, yes, I know you. We’re from the same regiment, see . . .’ Crossman had not noticed the yellow facings in the poor light, but he saw the eighty-eight on the forage cap now. ‘You and me are comrades-in-arms, me old sergeant spud. What did you do, murder an officer?’

  ‘That’s what I’m accused of doing.’

  Crossman hoped that this admission would end the conversation and that Johnson would leave him alone. The three smaller men moved away a little, as if they might become contaminated. Johnson remained sitting where he was however, staring deeply into Crossman’s eyes.

  ‘By God,’ said the big man, ‘I believe you.’

  21

  Prince Menshikoff’s foray on the Inkerman Heights on the 26th October, the day after the Battle of Balaclava, had convinced him that the weakest point in the siege line was on the British right flank. There, Lord Raglan’s troops were stretched thinly. Colonel Federoff, with a mere five thousand men, had broken through the outlying British positions on that day, only to be repulsed by artillery fire. Now Prince Menshikoff planned a major offensive with a hundred and twenty thousand men over the same ground.

  The Inkerman Heights was a piece of land east of Sebastopol, riddled with deep ravines and gullies, the largest of which was Careenage Ravine. Some of the ridges were over six hundred feet above sea level and thickly wooded. It was contained on the right by Chernaya River and to the south by the Woronzoff Road. Within the Heights was the British 2nd Division Camp, with the Light Division Camp and the Guards Camp to the rear. Despite Colonel Federoff’s attack, there was no evidence that Lord Raglan had visited the Heights or strengthened his position there.

  There were three main gullies to the north-east of the area: Volovia, Quarry and St Clements Ravines. In the centre was a rise known as Shell Hill. Menshikoff’s plan involved getting his artillery to Shell Hill in the quickest time possible. The British and the French would be in range of these guns and could be pinned down. At Shell Hill General Dannenberg would take overall command of Soimonoffs and Pauloff’s troops and drive on over Home Ridge, through the British defences, while General Gorchakoff harried the French.

  Prince Menshikoff was confident that a major attack would see his Russian soldiers overrunning the British positions. Once they had broken through, they could come up round behind the French on the British left.

  A mere twenty-five thousand British soldiers stood in his way, with forty thousand French unable to intervene in time.

  With his staff officers and messengers gathered round him, Prince Menshikoff issued his orders.

  ‘General Soimonoff is to advance from Sebastopol, cross Careenage Ravine, and using the road we know to exist on the east of this gully, to march with an army of nineteen thousand of our brave soldiers to take possession of Shell Hill with thirty-eight guns.’

  The lieutenant who was to ride with this message to General Soimonoff came to attention and clicked his heels. He knew the plan would please the general, who was proud of his 10th Division, consisting of twelve battalions of Katherineburg, Tomsk and Kolivansk Regiments. Alongside this division would be the Vladimir, Susdal and Uglitz Regiments, of the 16th Division, who had fought at the Battle of the Alma. There would also be the Bourtirsk Regiment, the 6th Rifles, a force of sappers and a small number of Cossacks.

  Menshikoff now turned to General Pauloff’s part in the assault.

  ‘General Pauloff will have the 11th Division, also the Borodino and Tarutin Regiments, half the 4th Rifle Battalion and ninety-six guns. In all, some sixteen thousand of our best troops. He will march across the Inkerman Bridge over the Chernaya River and advance along what the British call Quarry Ravine, to take up a position east of Shell Hill.’

  Prince Menshikoff now paced the floor of the old hall with its vast recesses, which he was using as his headquarters. He stared up at the high dirty windows as if deep in thought. Actually, he knew exactly what he was going to say next, but he had something of the showman in him. A little drama added to the occasion. He felt sure this was going to be the culmination of the war and victory for Russia over the invaders.

  Suddenly he turned on his heel.

  ‘General Gorchakoff will have under his command twenty-two thousand men. The 12th Division, General Liprandi’s cavalry and eighty-eight guns. He will draw the French under that General Bosquet from the Sapouné Ridge – also those British who are there, the Guards I believe. It is important to open a route for our cavalry. General Gorchakoff will force the French and British to attack him and so gain access to one of those routes. Am I understood?’

  There was a solemn nod from one of the staff officers responsible for the message to the general.

  Prince Menshikoff continued.

  ‘Generals Soimonoff and Pauloff will link up at Shell Hill and General Dannenberg will assume overall command. The attack will take place at six o’clock this morning. We must take heart in the knowledge that the British have not seen fit to reinforce the Inkerman Heights in any way since our attack several days ago. God is with us, gentlemen. It is our day.’

  The messengers went their various ways to deliver the orders.

  General Soimonoff received his message direct from Prince Menshikoff’s headquarters at around five o’clock. He read the order and then went to the doorway of the house he was using as his own quarters. It was still dark outside. The terrain over which his men would have to march was quite unknown to him. It was not going to be easy for his troops to wend their way across unfamiliar country. Prince Menshikoff’s staff officer had explained to him that he was to advance along the eastern edge of Careenage Ravine at six a.m. So be it. It would be done.

  However, shortly after the first messenger had departed, a second messenger arrived from General Dannenberg.

  ‘Sir, General Dannenberg’s compliments.’

  He was handed the written order from his immediate superior, which told him to advance, not on the eastern, but on the western bank of Careenage Ravine, and at five a.m.

  Soimonoff frowned and shook his head in bewilderment.

  ‘Which of these orders am I to follow?’ he asked the captain who had delivered the second message. ‘One tells me the east bank, the other the west bank! One says six a.m., the other five! Surely General Dannenberg has spoken with Prince Menshikoff?’

  The captain looked uncomfortable. It was not for a lowly staff officer to give opinions on the orders of high command. Soimonoff realised he was being unfair on the ma
n and he shrugged his shoulders and dismissed him.

  But what was he to do? He was not yet under Dannenberg’s command, but still under the command of Prince Menshikoff. Dannenberg would have command later, but that was not now. Soimonoff dreaded to think what would happen if Prince Menshikoff did not know about this sudden change in his plans. It was his inclination that he should stick to the first order and ignore the second one. He would advance along the eastern side of the ravine at six o’clock.

  He sighed in frustration. Having made a decision did not make him feel as good as it should do. Somehow he had the idea that he was in a bad situation. If the attack failed, whatever he did he would be accused of doing the wrong thing.

  The attack would just have to succeed, that was all.

  The bells of the Sebastopol churches began ringing out. It was Sunday. The citizens of the town would be preparing to go to church. The sound of the bells would help also to give heart to his troops. Perhaps they would see victory today? After all, the British and French were heavily outnumbered, and the element of surprise would assist in their endeavours.

  Lieutenant Kirinski served in the Tomsk Regiment, which was now marching down a narrow ravine. Mud splashed up his fine leather boots and clung to the hem of his greatcoat. Damp fog wet those pieces of hair sticking outside his headgear, plastering them to his sweaty forehead. The blade of the sword in his hand was covered in fine droplets of water, glistening like crushed diamonds in the dawn’s light.

  Fortified by a priest’s blessing and a little alcohol, Kirinski was ready for the coming day’s battle. The steep ravine walls were pressing the columns of men in on themselves, making progress difficult. Kirinski had imagined the gullies would be wider than this and not so deep or sheer. Those men who were squeezed on to the edges were tripping over themselves and there was some confusion amongst them.

  ‘Keep in step there,’ Kirinski ordered, as he came under the stare of Captain Gorbatloff. ‘Keep those feet in time.’

  He struck one of the men closest to him with the flat of his sword blade as a warning. Normally Lieutenant Kirinski carried a thick baton with which to beat the men into line, but today he felt happier with his sword in his hand. Other officers still had their sticks, or used their fists, without which they would have felt inadequate and unable to keep order.

  The soldiers did their best. There was a need to keep silent so that their advance would be a surprise to the British. Somehow though, the fear of making a noise made them even more clumsy. Some little way behind them the wheels of the gun carriages were squeaking and groaning, cracking stones and gravel under their rims, as they had to traverse rough ground. They had been well greased of course, but heavy guns will always make a certain amount of noise.

  Kirinski listened to the bells ringing out from Sebastopol and wondered whether he and his men would at last get the better of the British and French. If the Russians were the conquerors today, he felt sure he would have the opportunity to punish the Turks who had caused this war to be fought on Russian soil.

  Dawn began to creep very gradually up the eastern sky, though it was still dark in the depths of the gully. Mist swirled around the swinging arms and marching legs of the men. Kirinski’s eyes had become used to the poor light however, and he could see those men closest to him. He studied the peasant looks of the soldiers, with their bland faces, their wiry hair.

  These men were all conscripts, serving a forced twenty-five years: coarse, ignorant fellows, who were used to beatings in civilian life. They had courage, but it was the bravery of men whose very souls were owned by their masters. It was a quiet kind of desperate courage, not the aggressive boldness of a proud man. They fought in solid blocks of thousands, mindlessly and rigidly following each order to the letter, their columns like multi-limbed automatons.

  It was the opinion of Russian officers that if a man’s life was not really worth living, he would sacrifice it in battle that much more willingly. Kirinski believed this might be true, but he was not sure of its effectiveness. He was an intelligent young man and saw about him much he would change, if he were commander-in-chief of the Russian Army.

  The constant drilling for instance. A certain amount of drill was necessary for the discipline and order of the troops, but in the Russian Army drilling had been taken to extremes. It had reached the point where parades and ceremonies were more important than winning battles. Many of the muskets the men carried were useless as weapons of war because their parts had been polished with brick dust, so that they shone and their fittings were loose enough to rattle impressively on parade.

  These muskets only had a range of one hundred and fifty to two hundred yards at the best of times, but after being rubbed down and cleaned for the thousandth time they became utterly useless except as staves on which to fit a bayonet.

  We fight like African warriors, thought Kirinski, with spears.

  At that moment the lieutenant’s thoughts were interrupted when he noticed some figures ahead of him in the mist. He motioned for his men to stop marching. The figures came on, seemingly carelessly, calling out softly in a language that Kirinski knew to be English. These British soldiers had obviously not realised they were being confronted by Russians and probably thought this was a company from their own army.

  Suddenly the British soldiers in front stopped, not a few yards from Lieutenant Kirinski. He could see their pale white faces. Their eyes gleamed through the thick swirling mists as a cold realisation entered them. Kirinski estimated that there were about fifteen of them. Not a very large coup, but hopefully the first strike in a series of successes today.

  ‘Take them, quickly,’ ordered a captain to Kirinski’s left, ‘before they make a sound.’

  The British soldiers, bemused and shaken, were quickly gathered in, disarmed, and spirited to the back of the column.

  General Soimonoffs army moved on, like a great grey centipede winding its way along a channel. Kirinski was unusually cheered by the capture of those few soldiers. It seemed to bode well for the day ahead. Victory would be sweet, after the humiliation at the River Alma. Victory today would restore Russian pride and crush the hopes of the invading army for good and all.

  Then, just as suddenly as before, another set of figures came out of the mist. This time there were more of them. However, these were not weary picquets, but men whose brains were sharp and whose eyes were keen. Immediately shots rang out and the captain to the left of Kirinski fell with a bullet through his temple. His falling body hit the lieutenant with a thump, knocking the young officer sideways.

  Three other Russian soldiers in the front row of the column also crumpled, one letting out a penetrating scream.

  Now it has started, thought Kirinski, regaining his feet, and may God be with us this time.

  22

  Peterson had gone with Devlin to rejoin the 88th on the front, but she was not with the Connaught Rangers for long. Captain Goodlake, who had formed a company of sharpshooters from the Guards, heard that she had returned to the front and requested her presence in his roving band of marksmen. Peterson was known to the officer as a brilliant shot with the Minié rifle. She had been in Goodlake’s sharpshooters when the Russians had attacked the Inkerman Heights less than a fortnight previously. Goodlake was pleased to get the Ranger, who was now with him and thirty of his men now patrolling the Heights.

  Peterson had befriended a Coldstream Guardsman by the name of Wilkins, who admired her accuracy with the rifle. Wilkins did not know, of course, that Peterson was a woman, but he was the kind of man to whom this would have made little difference. His admiration was for the skill, not for the person behind it.

  The previous day it had rained hard, and through most of the night. Dawn had seen a cessation of the downpour, but warmer air had produced thick fog and mist all over the Heights. Peterson and Wilkins were moving together, with the other sharpshooters, north-west along Careenage Ravine when they heard clinking and rattling which seemed to come from the gully ahead. So
unds were deceptive in and around the Heights however, and such noises could have come from the road to the north.

  Captain Goodlake made a silent signal for the company to halt. They were used to his methods and each soldier in the company already had his rifle at the ready.

  ‘Gun carriages?’ whispered Wilkins. ‘Or just ox-carts on their way into Sebastopol?’

  Peterson listened carefully. ‘Guns,’ she said, her experience with Crossman’s peloton serving her, ‘and troops.’

  At that moment a mass of grey figures emerged from the mist not fifteen yards away. At first they were phantoms moving in a formation: merely a block of human shapes with mist swirling round their dark forms. Then they began to take on features, with round pale faces and muffin-shaped hats.

  It was a Russian column, filling the width of the ravine. Goodlake immediately sent a messenger off to raise the alarm in the British camps. Goodlake then realised it was time for action. He raised his hand.

  When it was lowered but a moment later an enfilade of fire came from his sharpshooters. The front ranks of the Russians staggered back as men were killed and wounded.

  ‘Lay into them, lads!’ cried Goodlake, silence now unnecessary. ‘Give ’em your best.’

  Peterson reloaded and fired again, the ball striking an officer in the head, flinging him backwards dramatically. The sharpshooters were retreating slowly back along the ravine, with the thick mass of bristling Russians moving ponderously forward, impossible to stop due to their sheer weight of numbers.

  The Russians were returning fire now, but ineffectively, hampered by their closely-packed numbers, arms and elbows getting in the way, musket stocks clattering against each other and bayonets clashing. They could not but help getting entangled and their accuracy suffered for it.