‘Still and all,’ Feltam said peevishly, ‘you’d think we’d be given our chance, wouldn’t you?’
Nearby, their horses were snuffling and snorting quietly, rivals too in this competitive world of the soldier.
Eggerton, thicker set than his cousin, with a ruddy farmer’s-boy complexion, shrugged his shoulders.
‘We’ll be given our chance, you mark my words. The war has only just started. All those foot regiments digging themselves in around Sebastopol! They’re not there for nothing. Once you get into a siege, it can take for ever. There’ll be plenty for the cavalry to do in time.’
Feltam nodded. A thought had just come to him. It was not the first time he had considered such things, but it was the first time he had had a chance to mention it to his cousin.
‘Listen, cousin – I – I want you to do something for me. I’ll give you a letter, to take to my mum – you know – if anything happens . . .’
Eggerton sighed. ‘You always was one for thinking on the bad side of things. We’ll be all right. We’ll look after one another. I won’t let them Ruskies do nothing to stop me and my cousin from getting home.’
‘Yes,’ replied Feltam, brightening. ‘The important thing is to get some action. I couldn’t go home without some action under my belt. How would I face my father and brothers?’
‘It’ll come,’ answered his cousin, smiling at Feltam’s eagerness and anxieties. ‘It’ll come sooner than you think . . .’
6
Private Linthorne, of the 7th Foot, Royal Fusiliers, had been seriously wounded in the chest at the Battle of the Alma, and had spent most of his subsequent days in the Kangaroo, a so-called hospital ship with none of the facilities of such a vessel. There were hundreds of disabled men on board and not a bedpan between them. They either staggered to somewhere to do their toilet, or fouled their bedspace. In the whole ship there were two surgeons, and five orderlies to dispense food and water. The walking wounded, of which there were few, spent wearisome hours at the duty.
Men died by the day, the hour, the minute.
It distressed Private Linthorne beyond endurance that he had to defecate in his trousers. There was no change of dress, no bedlinen, only his uniform and a piece of canvas sail to act as a sheet. The canvas was so rough it chaffed him and rubbed him raw when he tossed and turned in his pain. He spent much of his time in a pool of seawater, which leaked in through the hull and kept him soaked to the skin.
The ship rolled and dipped, adding seasickness to other maladies. There was the stench of gangrene in the atmosphere below decks, the danger of disease from those who had infectious illnesses, and the filth of the beds found its way into open wounds, ensuring blood poisoning and festering.
The overworked surgeons fell asleep on their feet, as they laboured at removing limbs and ministering to the shattered, broken men who had taken the heights of Alma against all odds. Men who had walked into the mouths of cannons to save their friends, their officers, their country from humiliation. Men who had rallied and shouted, ‘Come on, lads! Come on!’ while their battalion was being cut to pieces by canister and grape shot. Men who now lay in pools of piss and shit, crying to God for water, for their mothers, for death to come quickly.
These were the heroes of the Alma, now brought to the most ugly of circumstances by lack of supplies. This was how the brave died, locked in a stinking hell, lacking attention and the meanest, the most basic of facilities. Logistics was killing them like flies. For want of a chamber pot a soldier would never see his home again. For want of a blanket he died in the night. For want of a bandage he bled to death. There were no pots, no blankets, no bandages. Only the rough boards of the ship, a torn strip of canvas for the lucky ones, a harassed sailor or marine with the all-too-infrequent drink of water.
When the ship arrived at Scutari, most of the men were already dead. Some had clung on to life though, and Private Linthorne was among them. He had some hopes of seeing a bed, with real blankets, perhaps even sheets. He had some hopes of a change of shirt. He had some hopes of having his chest wound cleaned and dressings to plug the ever-widening hole.
Some hopes.
He was allowed to keep his strip of canvas, but there was nothing else but the floor of the barracks. Rats ran in and out at whim. The place was rife with fleas. There was no lighting, no warmth, no basic necessities. Linthorne was crowded in a corridor with others who lay on dirty, rotten boards crawling with cockroaches and swimming with diarrhoea.
There were bedpans.
A dozen of them to share between hundreds.
The toilets, so-called, were blocked and overflowing, reaching in rivulets between men’s bedspaces.
Patients were set in lines, to make it easier for the orderlies to feed and water them. The food was foul and hardly fit for the rats, and was often left laying in the filth which washed over the floor. There was no change of shirt, nor means of washing the dirty ones.
Provisions stood piled high on the docks, but were awaiting certificates from London for permission to open them. The Purveyor would let no one near cases or boxes which had no certificate. These stores were ‘extra’ in his opinion, as every soldier was required to bring with him into the hospital such items as were needed by that man. It was no fault of the Purveyor if a man had his legs shot away and had to be carried unconscious to the ship, his belongings left with the regiment. Rules were not flexible items in the Purveyor’s world.
Unknown to Linthorne, in England a lady of genteel birth, a Miss Nightingale from an extremely well-to-do family, was enlisting support for her plan to bring nurses to Scutari. Miss Nightingale was not a sweet, delicate young person with refined senses, but a tough and determined woman driven by a zeal which enabled her to ride roughshod over weak and strong men alike. Men who stood in the way of her goal. She could have stayed in her family home in Derbyshire and enjoyed a pleasant existence, occasionally visiting the second home in the New Forest, or going to the family’s Mayfair rooms for the London season, with its balls, parties and visits to the theatre.
Instead Miss Nightingale rolled up her sleeves, sought out those who could be most useful to her, including Queen Victoria, and set about tackling the business of bringing order into the chaos of the British Army Medical Department. She went at it like a small hurricane, driving through obstacles if it were quicker than going round them, gathering her nurses about her.
Unfortunately, for men like Linthorne, she would arrive at Scutari too late.
Before he had left the battlefield Corporal Matthew Cooper had asked Private Linthorne to ‘Hang on. If you can only hang on, they’ll get you to home again, Harry. A hero’s welcome, you’ll get, back in our village, eh? Just hang on.’
Private Linthorne, on reaching the innermost sanctum of Hell, could hang on no longer.
During his first night at Scutari Barracks Hospital, Harry Linthorne, a farm labourer’s son, quietly died.
One of the advantages of living in the hovel at the south end of Kadikoi village was the interesting traffic which passed while one sat outside of an evening watching the world go by. Crossman’s men had all gone to the Turkish canteen. They had been told to go there, rather than to the nearer canteen belonging to the 93rd, because Crossman knew there would be trouble if they went to a Scottish regiment. Someone would say something fairly innocuous but a brawl would ensue.
Crossman was dressed in his coatee and Oxfords, the buttons of his jacket undone around his throat to prevent the stiff collar chafing his neck. He sat quietly watching the bullock carts, horsemen and pedestrians struggling through the mire that had once been a road, up from and down to the Balaclava harbour, which was now bristling with ships.
The entrance to the natural harbour was quite narrow, while the high rocky sides protected any vessels in its deep waters. The remains of a Genoese fort stood above the harbour in the form of a tower and ramparts. It was an ideal haven for anchorage. Crossman had visited the much larger harbour in Kamiesch Bay, which the
French held, but this had very little protection from high winds, the land around being flat.
However, the French were, as usual, much better organized than the British, having arranged neat streets and shops, thereby achieving more than a light touch of civilization.
It was upsetting to Crossman that the ships in Balaclava harbour were full of needed stores, which were not being unloaded. There were plenty of empty buildings around the harbour which might have been used for warehousing, but the Purveyor, in a wisdom difficult to comprehend, continued to secrete those provisions in the recesses of ships without labels or means of identification. If a regiment required soap the messenger was faced with a vast array of vessels and had no knowledge even on which ship this cargo lay, let alone which part of the hold, under which canvas, at the bottom of which other cargo, in tight nooks and crannies almost impossible to get to without a sailor’s knowledge.
The much needed soap might lie under coils of rope, boxes of nails, packets of flour, bales of socks, all themselves needed at some time or another and just as difficult to find.
Crossman’s contemplations were broken by a greeting.
‘Good evening to you, Sergeant.’
It was the sturdy figure of The Times’ correspondent William Russell in his peaked cap, greatcoat and boots. There was mud splattered up his legs but he seemed not to care. He was on his way up to the lines, probably to join some young officers in their tent, where he would drink their brandy, sing their songs with them, smoke their cigars, and then inveigle information from them for his next scathing article on the inadequacies of the British command in the Crimea.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Crossman. ‘A fine evening.’
‘If you mean there is no rain,’ called Russell jovially, ‘then I agree with you. The Crimea has more rainy days than Ireland, I swear, and that’s no mean accomplishment.’
Then with a final wave of his hand, Russell struggled on through the quagmire. It was said that his articles and other news of the privations of the soldier on the front were stirring the conscience of the nation back in Britain. The word around the camps was that a lady named Florence Nightingale was recruiting volunteer nurses and had promised to use her own money to transport them and medical provisions to Scutari, to care for the sick and wounded there.
It was true that there were many women, mostly wives, like Mary Seacole and the redoubtable Mrs Rogers – wife of a trooper – who cared for the sick and wounded night and day. But this Florence Nightingale was a lady, with the power of a good family behind her, and was thus able to do something about the system rather than just deal with an immediate need.
Following Russell a short time later came the mounted Lord Cardigan, up from his yacht on which he had Raglan’s permission to sleep of nights. He sat high in the saddle, staring straight ahead, a haughty expression on his face. He would no more have deemed to say ‘Good evening’ to a sergeant of the Connaught Rangers, than speak to one of the flea-bitten mongrels that trailed wearily up and down the harbour road. Ever seeking and finding affronts to a gentleman of his rank and status, there seemed to simmer within him a total distaste for the world.
Crossman stood to attention as the brigadier-general passed by, and thought he saw Cardigan’s eyes flicker over his person, but could not have been certain. He was discomforted by this because Cardigan was a good friend of his father. They were both men of the same stamp: unintelligent, self-absorbed, full of self-importance and pride, utterly courageous.
Crossman felt a stab of unease in case he had been recognized by a man who had visited his father’s house several times, but soon quelled it. He knew he looked very different now from that callow beardless youth who had dined with Lord Cardigan. And he was in the uniform of a foot soldier, a sergeant. It was very unlikely even his brother would know him.
Darkness came, lit by many camp fires. Crossman was now ever wary of a Cossack death squad finding his dwelling, and kept his Tranter loaded and stuck in the waistband of his Oxfords.
He went inside to make some soup. As he was stirring the gruel a sharp knock on the door make him jump.
‘Who is it?’ he called.
‘Message for Sergeant Crossman.’
He went to the door, expecting a soldier with a note from Dalton-James, informing him of a new fox hunt. Instead there was a sailor standing there. Crossman was handed a missive of pink paper sealed with wax. The fellow, a small weaselly man with bad teeth, looked away as Crossman broke open the seal and read the letter. It told him to meet Mrs Durham on the quay at Balaclava harbour ‘or suffer the consequences of exposure’.
‘Thank you. There will be no reply,’ said Crossman, quietly.
‘Suit yerself,’ said the sailor, sauntering away into the night.
Crossman sighed. What was he to do? If he ignored the note Lavinia might well go to his father and inform that powerful man of his presence in the Crimea. Or perhaps she intended to reveal his real name to Major Lovelace or one of his superiors? Who knew what the scorned woman would do? Yet, if he obeyed the command, for such it was, he might end up in deeper trouble than simply hiding his identity. She would have him at her beck and call, a slave to her caprices.
He decided to ignore it. Lavinia could not have changed that much since the time they were in love. She used threats but rarely carried them out. It was not in her nature to hurt those she liked. She was a complex creature. Eager for life experience she could be devious when necessary to get at and do the things she wanted, yet she was intensely loyal and would not oppress a friend. She loved the sound and fury of battle, yet she could be tender and solicitous. She appeared to be a wild, free spirit, yet she had married a rather dull, heavy anchor of a man, whose very status and personality chained her.
As these thoughts swirled through Crossman’s mind, Lieutenant Dalton-James arrived. Crossman stood to attention and saluted. Dalton-James accepted his obeisance with a haughty air.
‘I have a fox hunt for you, Sergeant. You leave almost at once.’
‘Thank God,’ murmured Crossman, much to the puzzlement of the officer. ‘Thank God for that.’
‘You might decide you will not like it as much as you think you will,’ Dalton-James said, tripping over his tongue a little. ‘This is not one of your rip-roaring adventures, Sergeant. This is a little more basic’
‘Tell me, sir.’
‘You realize that despite the fact that the siege of Sebastopol is under way, it is not terribly effective. There are roads in and out which our thinly stretched lines have been unable to seal. Prince Menshikoff left a garrison of some eighteen thousand men in Sebastopol, mostly sailors. This has since increased to around twenty-five thousand. Almost ten thousand of those working on the defences, however, are prisoners – forced labour. Political prisoners, criminals and foreign citizens.
‘It will be your job to go into Sebastopol and rouse these prisoners to rebellion. Get them to attack their guards and destroy the defences if possible, if not at least help them defect to our side. Any questions?’
‘Do I do this alone?’
‘I do not think it wise for you to take your whole peloton with you. One or two more men working together are more effective in such situations. There will be others in there: Turks, some French, a few Austrians serving with the French, but your role will be crucial. You must do all you can to cause disruption and confusion. You may take one more soldier with you, in case you need a messenger. Choose your man.’
Crossman thought about it for a moment and then said, ‘I’ll take Wynter.’
Dalton-James’s eyebrows shot up.
‘Wynter? You don’t like Wynter. I thought Peterson was your favourite?’
Crossman said, ‘I have no favourites, sir. Peterson is indeed a brilliant shot, but this kind of thing would worry – him. He is not made for the clandestine work. Wynter has been in prison back in England – several times, I’ll warrant. He will fit in very well. He’ll be up to all the dodges. No, Wynter will make th
e ideal companion on this one.’
The lieutenant shrugged. ‘Very well – I said it was your choice and I will not go back on that. You leave at midnight. Where are your men?’
‘At the Turkish canteen, if they obeyed my orders.’
‘Which were?’
‘Not to go anywhere near the Scottish canteen.’
The lieutenant nodded. ‘Very wise. You show improvement, Sergeant.’ He moved in closer and spoke with a quieter voice. ‘We all know you’re a gentleman, don’t we, Sergeant? One day I will find out your secret. Major Lovelace keeps you protected, for his own devices, but Major Lovelace leads a dangerous life. One day he will not return from one of his own fox hunts, and then we – that is, you and I – will have a more serious talk on this subject.’
Crossman stared straight ahead. ‘As you wish, sir.’
‘Indeed, Sergeant, as I wish. Now I suggest you go and fetch Wynter and apprise him of his duties.’
With that Lieutenant Dalton-James, smart as a pin in his rifle green, left the hovel.
‘May your liver rot in your gut,’ muttered Crossman, furious at having to put up with being humiliated like a common street gamin. ‘May your eyes be damned in your skull.’ Then, becoming a little more inventive, ‘May Mrs Lavinia Durham discover she loves you and may her ardour exhaust you beyond endurance.’
It occurred to Crossman then that Dalton-James was actually one of Lavinia’s followers – one of those young subalterns and lieutenants who hovered around her like moths around a bright flame, desperate for female company, for a quick smile, for a light touch on the sleeve by a pretty gloved hand.
‘I’ll fix you, Mr Dalton-James,’ said Crossman, with the wicked thrill of schoolboy malice. ‘I’ll fix your limber, one of these miserable days.’
He left the hovel once again, lamp in hand, to search the damp night for his peloton. Finding the Turkish canteen, he sought out his men amongst the Bashi-Bazouks, Turkish infantry and some French Zouaves who preferred the bawdier Turkish canteen to their own. There was a woman as sturdy as the bear Yusuf Ali had killed, dancing near-naked for the delight of the raggedly-dressed Bashi-Bazouks and the Zouaves.
The Valley of Death Page 9
