by Gill Paul
Lucy just had time to cry, ‘Be careful, dear,’ as Charlie mounted his horse and called his men to arms.
Mrs Williams hurried past and over her shoulder called, ‘Come with us, Mrs Harvington. We can watch from Sapoune Heights.’
Lucy did not want a view of the battle but neither did she want to be left on her own, so she tagged along, nerves knotting her insides. They found a crowd already on the Heights. Lord Raglan himself, distinctive in his red jacket and oversized epaulettes, held court in the centre of a group of officers with field glasses. Fanny Duberly was with them, and Lucy called a greeting but she stared straight through her, cutting her. Some distance away, several dozen soldiers’ wives huddled together, gazing towards Balaklava. Lucy didn’t know what was going on, or even which groups were British in the chaotic scene below. Soon they could hear gunfire and explosions and smell the acrid scent of gunpowder.
Mrs Williams nudged her. ‘See that red line? That’s the Sutherland Highlanders. The Turks might have run for the hills – wouldn’t you know it! – but the Russkies’ll never get through them Scotsmen.’
‘Is that not a line of Russians advancing towards them?’ Lucy asked.
‘It is, but they’ll hold all the same.’
Just when it seemed as though the Highlanders might be overwhelmed, a British cavalry brigade rode in to relieve them. ‘Are the Hussars among them?’ Lucy asked.
‘No, that’s the Heavy Brigade,’ she was told.
Lucy felt dizzy with nerves as she watched the fierce clashes from afar. It seemed to her she could hear the individual yells and groans of the men, and the clash of steel on steel, but in reality the only audible sound was the loud booming of the shells and the crack of gunfire.
‘They’re stealing our big guns from the redoubts,’ one of the officers called to Lord Raglan. ‘Damn cheek. Someone should stop them.’
‘It will have to be the Light Brigade,’ Raglan said, pointing to a group to their left, and Lucy followed his gaze, guessing that might be where Charlie was.
‘Do you think the Hussars are with the Light Brigade just now?’ she asked Mrs Williams.
‘Should be. They’re being held in the north valley. I’d have used them before now if I was in charge.’ She had opinions on everything and Lucy wouldn’t have been surprised had she marched over to share them with Lord Raglan.
The firing died down, but it appeared as if no one on the battlefield knew what to do next. Suddenly, one of the officers cried, ‘By Gawd, what’s Cardigan doing? He’s heading down the north valley. The order was to go to Causeway Heights.’
Lucy noticed the commanders’ consternation first then looked in the direction he indicated and saw the mounted Light Brigade advancing slowly down the furthest valley. Suddenly they broke into a gallop, just as the Russian guns on the surrounding hills began to explode in great flashes of fire and thunder. It was impossible to make out what was going on: smoke billowed in clouds, and the noise was beyond deafening, but soon the men of the Light Brigade began to fall from their horses, not in their ones or twos but in their dozens. The horses fell too.
Everyone on Sapoune Heights was silent and Lucy bit her lip so hard it bled. It was awful to watch this slaughter and be so powerless. The stunned silence was broken as one of the officers burst into tears, followed by another. Two men clutched each other and sobbed like children.
‘What’s going on?’ Lucy asked, petrified.
‘It must be a mistake. They’re lambs to the slaughter,’ said a woman Lucy had never met.
‘Are the 8th Hussars definitely there?’
Her question hung in the air. More men fell, and riderless horses bolted in panic. The Russian cavalrymen appeared to turn their own horses away from the battlefield and their ranks fell into disarray. Perhaps that had been the plan all along but it seemed a perilous strategy.
‘Cardigan is through; he’s made it,’ one man with field glasses called.
They watched as more riders reached the end of the valley, hesitated, then turned to ride back towards the Sapoune Heights. Why would they return? None of it made sense. Lucy was rooted to the spot, shivering, scarcely daring to breathe, until she heard someone cry, ‘Here they are!’ Far down to their left, horsemen were limping towards them in ones and twos. A few spectators started cheering. Instinctively, Lucy bolted as fast as she could down the slope towards the point where the survivors were gathering. Other women ran too. It was further than she’d thought and she was panting and exhausted when she reached the spot and started scanning each blood-smeared, smoke-blackened rider who arrived, desperate for sight of her husband.
‘He’s Lucky Charlie,’ she told herself, weaving amongst the terrified horses. ‘He’ll be fine.’ Lucy repeated the words as a prayer. It felt like forever but must have been less than an hour before she found him, his busby in his hands. He jumped from his horse to embrace her and her eyes darted from head to toe, looking for wounds. He seemed unharmed.
‘Go back to camp, Lucy,’ he told her gruffly. ‘I don’t want you here. I have to help the men who have fallen, then I’ll return as soon as I can.’
She clung to him, pleading, ‘Please don’t go out there again. There are too many guns.’ Her ears were still ringing from the sound of them.
‘It’s safe now. Just go!’ He sounded fierce.
Back at camp, Lucy crawled into their tent and poured herself a glass of dark rum from Charlie’s bottle. It burned her throat, easing some of the tightness in her chest, and when she had drained it she poured another. Tears came, for all the men who had perished, for Bill and Adelaide – and for herself as well. She had watched dozens – perhaps hundreds – of men meet their deaths and all of them had been loved by someone: there was so much heartbreak to come. She poured a third glass of rum, which made her feel sick but at least took the edge off her misery. She would have drunk more but for the knowledge Charlie would want some when he got back and it was their last bottle.
She was asleep when he crawled into the tent but he lay down beside her and squeezed her breasts, then lifted her petticoats and made love to her with fierce urgency. He pounded hard inside her, without any whispered endearments, but she didn’t mind. She knew he was relieving the horror of the day. It was almost as if he was making love to her in order to prove they were still alive.
Chapter Thirteen
The morning after the Battle of Balaklava a head count was taken. Two officers and nineteen men of the 8th Hussars had been killed, twenty wounded and eight presumed to be taken prisoner. A sombre mood settled on camp, reflected in cold, gusty and squally weather. When Charlie went out to an officers’ briefing in the morning, Lucy made her way to the cookhouse.
‘We don’t need your help,’ Mrs Jenkins told her coldly.
Lucy was taken aback. ‘I know I’m not very efficient. In the time it takes me to peel one potato you can rustle up a tasty stew. But I am very keen to be involved so please try to find some menial task, if only to humour me.’
Mrs Jenkins looked around at the other women. Their faces were unfriendly, their arms crossed.
‘Where is Mrs Williams?’ Lucy peered round, looking for her.
‘Her husband Stan’s injured so she’s at his bedside … wherever that might be.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that!’ Lucy gasped.
‘The powers that be don’t seem to have thought about the fact men might get injured out here. But I s’pose we shouldn’t say such things in front of a captain’s wife in case it gets passed back.’ The tone was unpleasantly sarcastic.
‘I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable to have a captain’s wife among you. I promise that nothing I hear when I’m with you women is ever repeated to my husband. You can speak freely.’ She gave a nervous smile, puzzled by their attitude.
‘No one cares what your husband thinks,’ another woman chipped in. ‘He’s a lousy stinking meater.’
‘A what?’ Lucy gasped. She’d never heard the term.
; ‘It means coward,’ another explained, looking uncomfortable.
Lucy turned to Mrs Jenkins for an explanation. ‘They’re saying that Charlie didn’t ride with the Light Brigade during the charge,’ Mrs Jenkins said quietly, holding Lucy’s gaze. ‘Lizzie Williams’ husband and loads of others say he claimed to have some problem with his stirrups when they all trotted out. He hung back trying to fix them, then only rejoined the Hussars when they rode out of the valley again all shot to pieces.’
‘I don’t believe it. I’m sure you’re mistaken,’ Lucy cried, her cheeks pink.
‘Ask your husband. I think you’ll find we’re right. Lizzie Williams says she wants nothing more to do with either of you.’
‘I can’t …’ Lucy was baffled. ‘I’m sure it is not true. Please don’t judge him until you’ve heard both sides.’
‘Well, he’s hardly going to admit it, is he? Your Charlie, the meater. Fine gentleman you’ve chosen there.’
Lucy stared at them for a moment then turned to hurry back to her tent, her heart beating hard. An image flashed through her mind of Charlie riding up after the battle without a hair out of place. The other men had torn, bloodied uniforms and terrorised horses but he and Merlin had seemed fine. All day, the scenes of battle played on her mind. Surely he must have some reasonable explanation; perhaps he had been given different orders from the rest.
That evening at the cookhouse she held her head high, avoiding the gaze of the women who had confronted her, simply picking up two bowls of stew. She and Charlie ate inside their tent with blankets pulled round their shoulders against the chill, then he poured his usual tumbler of rum.
‘Is there any word on the total casualties from the battle yesterday?’ she asked.
‘Officially there are six hundred and fifteen missing but it’s not yet clear whether they have been killed or taken prisoner. There are many bodies that can’t be identified.’ He shuddered.
‘It’s all so awful. Did you know when you received the order that you would be riding out in range of the Russian guns?’ She watched him out of the corner of her eye. ‘I don’t know how you could force yourself to do it. I’m sure I couldn’t.’
Charlie looked up sharply, narrowed his eyes and chose his words before speaking. ‘Lucan queried the order but Nolan confirmed it. It seems our commanders may have been at cross purposes but a soldier is trained to obey, not to question.’
‘It must be hard when every instinct is telling you to turn away, when you don’t have faith in the powers that be …’
‘Must we discuss this, Lucy? Do you have any idea how distressing it is for me when so many good friends have been lost? I played cards with these men. Percy – you remember, the one with the champion beetle in Varna – is gone. Cecil is gone. You’ll forgive me if I don’t feel like talking about it but would rather enjoy a little respite during my off-duty hours.’ It was the first time Charlie had spoken critically to her.
‘Of course, my love. I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t tell him of the rumour going round about him, or the consequence that she no longer had a single friend in camp and would be utterly alone during the long hours when he was riding out on duty. She was sure they must be wrong. He was a captain in Her Majesty’s army, so he had to be brave. There must have been some misunderstanding – but if he refused to talk about it, how could she explain his side to the women?
Charlie drained the bottle of rum, instructing her to buy another at Kadikoi in the morning, then he fell onto their bed and was soon in a restless sleep. He turned on one side then the other, meaning that Lucy could not settle, and then he began to mumble ‘Susanna’ with the same intense longing she had heard in Varna. Lucy pressed her hands against her ears to blot out the sound. It was as if she were lying with a man who was a stranger to her, a man who was in love with someone else. She had thought she knew Charlie inside out, but really there was much she knew nothing about.
Chapter Fourteen
Ten days after the trauma of Balaklava, the Russians attacked again at a place called Inkerman, a few miles north of the British camp. Once again, it was a surprise attack in the hours before dawn and men were summoned by insistent bugles. Charlie leapt from his bed and began automatically to pull on his uniform, then his legs seemed to give way and he slumped, his hands shaking.
‘What is it, dear?’ Lucy asked, alarmed.
Charlie’s eyes were wide, his skin chalk-white and his brow clammy. He stared at her but couldn’t speak and she could hear he was breathing in quick, short pants. ‘I … I … cannot …’ he stammered.
‘Let me pull on your boots,’ she chivvied and crouched at his feet, but he shrank from her touch, clutching his chest.
‘My heart … it’s beating too hard,’ he gasped. ‘I think it will fail.’
‘I’ll try to find a doctor.’ She jumped to her feet.
‘No!’ His agonised cry rang out and she stared at him. ‘I m-must rest.’
Lucy calculated quickly. She couldn’t have him accused of desertion, so she must somehow prove that he was ill. There was a man several tents away who was quarantined with dysentery. Thinking fast, Lucy rushed down and retrieved his bedpan from outside the tent flap, careful to avoid contact with the contents, then placed it prominently by their tent instead. Next, she rushed to the spot where the Hussars were congregating, preparing to ride out, and told an officer that Charlie had been up all night with fever and digestive symptoms, and that she feared it might be cholera or typhus. The officer agreed to pass a message to Major Dodds.
The camp was emptying as all men fit for duty made their way to battle and she saw the women from the cookhouse hurrying to find a vantage point from which to watch the fighting, pulling on coats against the morning chill. The shuddering boom of shelling felt close by and Charlie jumped with each explosion, his eyes glazed; in fact, he did seem ill.
Lucy made some tea, adding a spoonful of sugar from the fast-dwindling stock she had brought from London, then she lay beside him and stroked his head, murmuring, ‘There, there; just rest, my dear,’ until he fell asleep. She looked down at his sleeping face and felt very afraid. She had put her safety entirely in this man’s hands. He was her husband, nine years her senior, and he was supposed to look after her, not the other way around. As he lay there, a new frown line between his brows, Lucy remembered Dorothea’s words: ‘You hardly know each other … wait till after the war and see if you still feel the same way.’ If only she had listened. She missed Dorothea terribly. Oh, to be at home with her safe, wise, sensible sister now. She could be writing letters to Charlie from the comfort of the morning room, instead of sitting alone on this cold, damp plain.
But then she remembered Bill’s words: ‘Give him as much love as you possibly can, because he needs it and he deserves it.’ Charlie was alone in the world apart from her, and that thought helped her to summon her love for him again. He needed her and she would be there for him.
He was sleeping soundly, so after a while she went out to walk around the camp. Already, wounded men were trickling back, some walking and others carried on stretchers. The army hadn’t yet managed to get ambulance carts to the British camp and no one knew where the injured were to be treated. Lucy knew nothing of nursing but she brewed a large pot of tea in the cookhouse and took cups of it to the men.
‘Where are you hit?’ she asked. ‘Have you seen a doctor yet? I’m sure one will be here soon.’ The men seemed resigned to their fates. At least they were alive, although she could tell several were in agonising pain.
She got into conversation with one young Scotsman who had a severe leg wound. She could see his knee bone through the shattered, bloody flesh. Someone had tied a tourniquet above the hole but Lucy guessed he was likely to lose the leg – if he were to survive at all. It was said the odds were not in favour of amputees. She felt sick looking at the leg so focused on his face instead.
‘Are you married?’ she asked.
‘Naw, I live with my ma in Clydebank,’ he sa
id. ‘I wish she was here right now. When I was a nipper, if a big boy hit me she would charge straight out into the street and box his ears. Once when a schoolteacher caned me she marched down to the school and had a shouting match with him, then she hit him over the head with her umbrella. I wonder what she would do to the Russkie who shot up ma leg?’ He chuckled. ‘He wouldnae know what hit ’im.’
Lucy laughed out loud. ‘What about your father? Is she fierce with him too?’
‘Oh, aye, she keeps him in line. There’s never been any doubt who’s the boss in oor hoose.’
‘Is she a large woman?’
It was the Scotsman’s turn to laugh. ‘Tiny! She’s only about four foot six, but with a voice like a ship’s foghorn and a personality to match. Bless her …’ He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I wonder, Ma’am, if it’s not too much to ask, could I dictate a letter and you could write it down? I’m not sure I can write just now an’ anyways, I’ve no paper.’
‘Of course,’ Lucy agreed, and rushed back to her tent for supplies.
‘Dear Ma,’ the soldier began, and Lucy wrote the words in her neatest hand. ‘I’ve been shot up and am waiting for them to take me to a hospital ship bound for Scutari. It’s my leg that’s hit. I doubt I’ll be fighting again so maybe once I’m well enough they’ll ship me home, which is a good thing as the winter is coming and I don’t fancy being out here much longer. Hope the weather is fair in Clydebank. Give my best to Pa and to my sisters. Your ever-loving son, Iain.’ He gave her the address and she promised to see it was sent straight away. She wondered if he had any inkling that he might not recover from this wound. He didn’t appear to. Perhaps it was best. When a stretcher-bearer came, he learned they were taking him to Kamiesch in a French ambulance since there were no British ones to be had. He would sail out on a French ship.
‘How do you say “thank you” in French?’ he asked Lucy, and she told him: ‘Merci.’
‘Sounds as though I’m asking for mercy. I suppose I am.’ He held out his hand to shake hers then closed his eyes as they carried him away. Lucy watched him go, praying silently that he would make it back to his fierce, diminutive mother.
