Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Hamilton, Hanna

  Loud whistles and catcalls from the soldiers already on board ship reminded them where they were. They peered down on them like a gathering of crows on a branch.

  “Steady on, guv” yelled one of them.

  “Leave something for when you get back. You will kiss the lass again,” cried another.

  Clementine pulled away. Her face was as scarlet as Stirling’s breeches. If he was a “Cherrybum”, then she was a “Cherryface”. She pressed her lips together as she scanned the sides of the steamer on the dock. The soldiers waved at her, shouting pledges to take care of the officer.

  “Leave it up to us, milady. We will look after him for ye.”

  “There’s a good man that.”

  “Nothing will happen to the likes of him. Major Whit Whittaker looks after his own,” shouted Rory who had finally found out Stirling’s name after he had been so kind to him.

  “He taught us how to ride.”

  “And well, he did.”

  Clementine was taken aback by the affection the rank and file displayed for her beau. She had no way of knowing just how much effort Stirling had put into the men’s drill. After his initial introduction to Lord Cardigan’s archaic and brutal regimen, he had adopted what he knew best: he had taught the men how to ride by showing them how to bond with their steeds rather than dominate them.

  In the shortest of time, the newly minted hussars of the eleventh were galloping over the training ground yelling boohaloo with the officers. Even Lord Cardigan had managed to commend the young officer for his aptitude.

  “You are much beloved, Stirling,” said Clementine, looking into his eyes sweetly. “The men do respect you.”

  “Oh, it is nothing. I did what any officer would. Those lads up there are what will make or break us when the shooting starts.”

  “You are far too modest, Major.” Clementine’s blush never left her face when she saw him smirk.

  “As long as I am beloved by you, then all is well.”

  “That you are, darling fiancé.”

  When one of the naval officers shouted that it was time to finish up with the goodbyes, Clementine shuddered. Hearing the toot of the ships, she couldn’t let go of him. It was far too final. The notion of never feeling his touch again, all consuming. Holding his hand like she did was all she had. She didn’t want to relinquish the budding happiness she had only recently found to let go of it again so soon. Yet, she knew that she must.

  Stirling depended on her to show strength, Florence Nightingale depended on her to do her duty and her colleagues in the corps would need her support when the time came. Clementine would never let any of them down and most of all Nightingale because she had still endorsed her joining the corps despite her being under the required age of twenty-three.

  “We will be together soon. It won’t be long until the nurses are sent after you,” she said at last, forcing the tears from her eyes.

  “Let us hope that day never comes, Clementine. I’d rather not see you for three years than see you sooner, for then I will know that I have been wounded in battle.” Stirling shrugged. “And there is no way of knowing whether my injuries will be light or not, should that ever arise.”

  Clementine nodded. What he had said made sense. She too never wanted to see him in the inside of a hospital. She would rather have him dashing about on his horse, Cloud, slaying the Russians any day.

  “It is time, my love. I must go. I will write to you every day and pray that this…” Stirling waved his hand over the docks. “Won’t keep me apart from you for all too long.”

  “And I will write to you, darling Stirling. Be careful, I beseech you.”

  He chuckled. “I will be as careful as any soldier can.” He kissed her on the lips and turned away.

  Clementine watched Stirling mount the boardwalk up to the waiting steamer. When he reached the top of the walkway, he bowed briefly to wave before he vanished inside of the ship. His disappearance from view made her swallow deeply. Elizabeth stood next to her on the quay. Her comportment was not as sanguine. Heavy bulbous tears streaked down her cheeks in a blatant display of her melancholy.

  The shouts of “God save the Queen” all around them and the singing of the national anthem did nothing to add any gaiety to the event. Clementine did her best to remain stoic. Her eyes scanned the lines of the ship in the hope that she might catch another glimpse of the man she loved. As another cacophonous tootle erupted as hot steam shot from the ship’s steam whistle, she caught sight of Stirling looking down at her.

  As he waved, Clementine mouthed the words, “I love you dearest Stirling. Don’t be long for I don’t know whether I can live this life without you by my side.”

  Chapter 24

  From the moment they stepped off the ship into the rushing surf by the beach, it was clear to Stirling and Royce they would endure terrible suffering in the months to come. The sweltering heat was unbearable and the surrounding countryside harsh. It made Stirling think of the magical day he had spent with Clementine on the banks of the Thames prior to their departure. They were two different worlds. Lush green, undulating hills speared through by the waterway of the Thames had been replaced by what lay before him.

  At first, his environ had appeared to be very hospitable because of the sandy beach and the silent advent of the waves crashing on the sand. There had not been a cloud in the sky and the sun had shone with careful strokes on the day they arrived.

  The entire atmosphere had been one of excitement and adventure. Songs had been sung and tales of victory told. The men had exchanged heady banter, impervious to the harsh commands of their sergeants. If Stirling didn’t think too much about his circumstance, it might seem that he was in Blackpool or Poole, strolling over the sand with the woman he loved.

  Yet, the blatant contrast was too potent. Mountains towered above them - sometimes reaching up to heights of five thousand feet - dominated the whole coastline. The massif stretched from the coast to about fifty miles inland that to some might contain some very pristine untouched nature.

  The mountains formed by ragged limestone had been shaped into high peaks with canyons, cliffs and valleys transecting them in all directions. Judging by the maps he had seen during the voyage, the area had numerous caves as well as small lakes. There were almost no marked trails.

  The voyage over from England, on board ship, had been testing to say the least. The civilians that accompanied them had born the brunt of the hardships. The army had taken them under sufferance and many of the women and children had been kept below decks for the entire voyage so as not to disrupt naval operations.

  For the duration of the passage across the length of the Mediterranean, the sea had been calm. This had all changed upon entering the Black Sea. A vile tempest had battered the ships, scattering them in all directions. It had taken days for the fleet to reassemble off the coast of the Crimea.

  In the older vessels, there was no escaping the dark, damp, airless atmosphere, which stank of sweat and vomit. Nor was it possible to stand upright in such confined spaces. Some women had been so prostrated by constant retching that they had lain on the soaking-wet floors of their cabins. The children had screamed and the horses had whickered. After the storm, countless equine carcasses had been hurled overboard as the animals were not in favour of sea travel.

  During the voyage, many women had turned back. Others, frantic for food and shelter which the army seldom provided, abandoned their regiments long before they got to the Crimean Peninsula, to fend for themselves in the filthy alleys of Constantinople or in Scutari on the shores of the Black Sea.

  In Scutari, where they finally found lodging in the huge army barracks, many of the women were by then so brutalised by army life that they turned to drink. The more enterprising went into prostitution. Yet, instead of putting them to good use as cooks, laundresses or nurses, the army had cussedly refused to incorporate these desperate wives into regimental life.

  It was the fourth and final day of the landing of all of
the troops, the stores, equipment, horses and artillery. All around Stirling, the industriousness of the soldiers told a story of the men’s willingness to do their bit for queen and country. The Crimean campaign had opened upon anchoring five days before on the 13th of September in the bay of Eupatoria. The town had surrendered and five hundred marines had landed to occupy it. The town and bay provided a fallback position in the case of disaster. A circumstance many believed possible on the fifth day since their arrival.

  The ships had then sailed east to make the landing of the allied expeditionary force on the sandy beaches of Calamita Bay on the south west coast of the Crimean Peninsula. The name was aptly suited as it also meant “Calamity Bay”. The landing had surprised the Russians, as they had been expecting a landing at Katcha, the last-minute change proving that Russia had known the original battle plan.

  The landing of over fifty thousand allied troops was north of Sevastopol. In response, the Russians had arrayed their army close by in expectation of a direct attack.

  “Do you think Lord Raglan will order the assault today?” asked Royce who rode on his horse next to Stirling.

  “Well, we have advanced all the way to the Alma River and look…there they are.” Stirling pointed ahead to the array of glinting muskets and neatly positioned men in grey uniforms before them.

  “I suppose this is it.”

  Stirling nodded. “I suppose so. I wonder whether his lordship will find use for the cavalry today?”

  “Judging by the lay of the land, this is going to be an infantry operation.”

  “Look at you – the able general.”

  Royce chuckled. “Well, I did learn a few things at Sandhurst, you know.”

  The sound of trumpets heralded the making of camp. On cue, a frenzy of activity took a hold as the men ran this way and that, dispensing the pack animals of their heavy cargos.

  “It appears we attack on the morrow, my friend,” said Stirling, watching Lord Cardigan who had arrived on the peninsula on his private yacht with a coterie of civilians, ride away from his vantage point on a knoll overlooking the enemy army.

  * * *

  The Russian position had been strong. So confident of this fact was the Russian commander, Prince Alexander Menshikov, that he had set up a grandstand from where Russian gentlemen and ladies could observe his supposed victory through their opera glasses. Sitting across the plain were the allied spectators. The entire spectacle was like an outing to Ascot to watch the horse races. Men and women in their finest clothing partook in tasty delicacies of finger sandwiches and glasses of champagne.

  However, after three hours, the allied frontal attack had driven the enemy out of their dug-in positions with losses of six thousand men. The Battle of Alma had claimed over three thousand allied casualties. After that, the allies had failed to pursue the retreating enemy forces. It was a strategic error to Stirling’s mind. Had they advanced, he was certain that they would have easily captured Sevastopol that very same day.

  The Russian retreat had become a rout and Lord Raglan had sought permission to pursue them. Had the French allies followed his advice, they might have taken Sevastopol by surprise. However, General St. Arnaud, the commander of the French force, had decided this was impossible for his French troops had left their packs at their starting points across the river and would have to go back for them before further advances could be made. Furthermore, unlike the British, the French had no cavalry with which to give chase.

  Adding to this, and convincing certain allied commanders of the need not to follow the Russians, was the enemy’s decision to blow up and scuttle their own navy across the opening of the harbour of Sevastopol. Realizing that their fleet could not match that of the allies in speed or gunpowder, the Russians had made this bold decision to prevent the allies from entering the harbour.

  The successful allied land forces on the River Alma had then realized that any attack on Sevastopol would have to be made without any support from their navies. Accordingly, under all these restrictions, the French commanders had been reluctant to pursue the Russians at this point. Raglan was unwilling to pursue the enemy without French support and the broken Russian army was able to escape unmolested.

  Only on the 23rd of September did the British and French land armies begin the march to Balaclava to begin the siege of Sevastopol.

  Believing that the northern approaches to the city were too well defended, especially due to the presence of a large star fort and because Sevastopol was on the south side of the inlet from the sea that made the harbour, Sir John Burgoyne, the engineer advisor, recommended that the allies attack Sevastopol from the south. The joint commanders, Raglan and St Arnaud, had agreed to this.

  On the 25th of September, the whole army marched southeast and encircled the city to the south. This let them set up a new supply centre in a number of protected inlets on the south coast. Consequently, the Russians had retreated into the city.

  The Allied army had moved without problems to the south and the heavy artillery was brought ashore with batteries and connecting trenches built so that by the 10th of October some guns were ready. When the bombardment had commenced one hundred and twenty-six guns had fired, fifty-three of them French. The fleet at the same time had engaged the shore batteries. The British bombardment worked better than the French, who had smaller calibre guns.

  At the same time, the fleet had suffered high casualties during that day. The British had wanted to attack that afternoon, but the French wanted to defer the attack. A postponement was agreed, but on the next day the French were still not ready.

  By the 19th October, the Russians had transferred some heavy guns to the southern defences and outgunned the allies.

  Reinforcements for the Russians had given them the courage to send out probing attacks. The Allied lines were stretched. The French on the west had less to do than the British on the east with their siege lines and the large nine-mile open wing back to their supply base on the south coast.

  In the meantime, cholera had struck throughout the allied forces. The disease killed with terrible speed and efficiency. Suffering from acute vomiting and diarrhoea, the victims died of dehydration within hours. Men were dying so fast that there was not enough wood or time to make coffins and they were buried in blankets. The death toll increased as the days went by, sapping morale and eliminating the heady exuberance that had accompanied the army when they had left English shores.

  That was how it stood on the 24th of October when Stirling and Royce rode their horses behind the dug ins. Both of them had thinned out considerably, making their uniforms appear big on their frames. Even Stirling’s white horse, Cloud, looked worse for wear.

  “Do you think Raglan will have any use for the Light Brigade, Stirling? This war has been the most boring event of my life.”

  Stirling scowled at his friend. “I would hardly call the dying of thousands of men boring, but rather a distasteful waste. We may be on the winning side, but I cannot help but think that every victory we have had so far has been pyrrhic.”

  “Yes, I know. This is a disaster. Men die by the minute and there is nothing the doctors can do about it.” The expression on Royce’s face was haggard and drawn.

  Hearing the mention of doctors, Stirling thought of Clementine. As they had promised, they had written almost every day since their parting. However, that had come to an end two weeks ago.

  In her last letter, Clementine had told him of her imminent departure for Constantinople. Knowing of the travails of sea travel, Stirling worried for her wellbeing. He could hardly sleep at night when he imagined the love of his life on board ship and possibly encountering a storm of the likes he had seen a month ago. Not having heard from her made it worse.

  Stirling had seen the squalor of the barracks in Constantinople. They were no place for a woman. Clementine was strong of that he was sure, but could she survive in a place where countless women had perished. He found himself praying for a letter from her telling him that all was
well. He prayed to God that he would be alive to read it when it finally arrived on board the mail ship. He would write to her that night, scribbling white lies that the campaign was all they had hoped for. Yet, little did he know that Royce’s wish for cavalry action would come sooner than he hoped.

  The Charge of the Light Brigade was only a day away. The event that would inspire poems and songs hung in the air like a foretaste of bloody heroism.

  Chapter 25

  “Oh my goodness, there’s more of them,” cried Clementine to Sally while she watched the countless wounded men being carried or limping into the Barrack’s Hospital in Scutari that was located in the Asian part of Constantinople.