by V. A. Stuart
“We sleep in our lines, sir,” Sergeant MacCorkill explained, “on the bare ground, with no bivouac fires permitted, and each man with his rifle at his side. Yonder, sir …” He gestured ahead of them, to a fold in the rising ground. “And Sir Colin with us, for he is never asking his men to put up with hardships that he himself does not share. The naval gun battery is away over there, to our left, sir … with your Jacks still working like beavers on their parallels. Fine lads they are indeed, sir, and we are proud to have them with us. But the Turks …” He shrugged, evidently as mistrustful of the Turco-Tunisian auxiliaries as Admiral Lyons had told him Sir Colin Campbell was, Phillip thought. “’Tis a pity that we are having to leave them to hold the redoubts on the Causeway. Now if we’d the rest of our Brigade—the 42nd, and the 79th, sir—there would be no fear of the Russians over-running us, for there’s not a man in the whole of the Highland Brigade who wouldn’t follow Sir Colin to hell and gone, sir, if he bade them. He’s a bonnie fighter and the best commander in the British Army, you may take my word for that, sir … the best, aye, and the bravest, too!”
“I believe you, Sergeant,” Phillip assured him, with sincerity, reminded of his conversation with young Midshipman Daniels on the subject of army officers. It seemed a grave reflection on the British Army’s system of promotion that a man like Sir Colin Campbell, with over forty years of active and very distinguished service behind him, should merit only the command of a brigade. True, he had been given a brevet promotion to Major-General quite recently but so also had Lord Cardigan and others of the same caliber. Officers who had seen no fighting since Waterloo out-ranked him and even those few who had lacked his experience. Indeed, with the sole exception of Sir George de Lacy Evans, who was 67, none of the present Divisional Generals could come anywhere near to equalling his record. Sir Colin Campbell had fought under Moore and Wellington; there was scarcely a battle in the whole Peninsular War in which he had not taken part and, in India, at Chilianwala and Gujerat, he had commanded a division under Lord Gough, and later under Sir Charles Napier, whose glowing tributes to his courageous leadership and outstanding ability had won him a K.C.B. in 1849. At the Alma, he had led his Brigade magnificently, his three fine regiments putting some twelve Russian battalions to flight in a display of disciplined valour that …
“I am thinking, sir,” Sergeant MacCorkill said, breaking into his thoughts, “that there is one of your naval young gentlemen who is wanting to speak with you. Over younder, sir …” Phillip turned and a perspiring boy, with the white patches of a midshipman on the collar of his uniform jacket, came panting up to him.
“Lieutenant Hazard, sir?” the boy asked, when he could get his breath.
“Yes, that’s right, youngster. And you?”
“From the Niger, sir.” The midshipman touched his cap. “Captain Heath sent me to tell you that four hundred Marines from the Algiers and the Sanspareil have been landed at Balaclava, sir. The Wasp has been placed under the orders of Captain Lushington and she is finding reinforcement for the Naval Brigade. Captain Heath is to command a force of two hundred officers and seamen, sir, to reinforce the position here, and I am to tell you, sir, that the Captain expects to report to Sir Colin Campbell at Kadi-Koi first thing tomorrow morning. An advance party of volunteers from Niger and Vesuvius are on their way up now, sir, with ammunition.”
“Thank you,” Phillip acknowledged. He waited but when the midshipman said no more, asked frowning, “That’s all?”
“Yes, sir, I think so. Except that I am to inform Lieutenant Dunn—our First Lieutenant, sir—who is in Number Four Battery before Kadi-Koi. He—”
“Your Captain did not mention the Sanspareil? Apart, that is to say, from the Marines she landed?”
The youngster shook his head, clearly puzzled. “No, sir, he didn’t. But she was lying off the port during my watch and she was still there when I left Niger, sir. The Marines were landed by Wasp and Lynx and one of the small tenders, together with some 32-pounder howitzers and shot and shell, sir, for the Marine Artillery positions on the Heights.”
Phillip asked one or two more questions and then thanked and dismissed the lad. The Sanspareil, it was evident from his replies—although she was anchored outside Balaclava—had not as yet signalled for permission to enter the harbour which meant, he supposed, that Admiral Lyons had failed to persuade the Commander-in-Chief of the need to risk a line-of-battle ship in its defense. According to Niger’s midshipman, the Admiral himself had not come ashore and no orders from him had been received in Balaclava, so that … he sighed and motioned Sergeant MacCorkill to continue their interrupted journey.
Sir Colin Campbell, with members of his staff and Colonel Ainslie of the 93rd, was eating a frugal meal in a ramshackle farmhouse adjoining No. 4 Battery when Phillip reported to him. The meal was cold but—having been compelled to forbid his men to light bivouac fires, lest these betray their position to the enemy—he could not, Sir Colin explained, permit his staff to do so either.
“But you are welcome to share our repast, such as it is, Mr Hazard,” he invited cordially, in the strong Scottish accent he had never lost. “Sit you down and tell us what news you have brought us from the Admiral. I trust that it is good news?”
“I hope you may consider it good, sir, in the circumstances …” Phillip made his report, ending with an apology for the mishap which had delayed his arrival, and saw his hosts exchange wry glances as they listened.
The Brigade Major, Anthony Sterling, asked him a number of pertinent questions, but Sir Colin himself was silent, thoughtfully tugging at his moustache and at the small tuft of greying dark hair which adorned his chin. In appearance the re-doubtable commander of the Highland Brigade was a spare, slightly built man who, at first sight, looked far from robust but, from previous experience of him, Phillip knew that—like Admiral Lyons—he was possessed of reserves of energy and a wiry strength that many a man half his age might have envied. Like the Admiral, too, he drove himself hard and, although something of a martinet, his men loved him … he was “a bonnie fighter,” as Sergeant MacCorkill had said, and his Highlanders took a fierce pride in the stern discipline he imposed on them.
His years of service in the health-sapping climates of China and India had, however, taken their toll of him. Sir Colin looked much older than his 61 years and his deeply lined, sallow-complexioned face was a legacy of those years of almost ceaseless campaigning, as also was the ague, to which, when it attacked him, he was wont to refer as “this cursed old enemy of mine.” He was evidently suffering from this now, Phillip noticed but, in spite of it, he firmly shook his head to the mess servant’s offer of whisky when, his unappetizing meal finished, he pushed his plate away. His senior aide-de-camp, Lawrence Shadwell, eyed him anxiously but, when his own turn came he, too, shook his head to the whisky, and most of the others followed his example.
“Your Admiral and his Commander-in-Chief have done a great deal for us, Mr Hazard,” Sir Colin said. “And we are grateful … particularly for your Marines, who are as fine a body of men as I have ever seen. Would there were more of them! It is a pity that Lord Raglan cannot spare me the rest of my Brigade but …” He shrugged philosophically. “We have done the best we can with the men and materials we’ve been given. You may tell your Admiral, when you see him, that he need not concern himself unduly about the need for a line-of-battle ship in the harbour. It will not be needed, save as a last resort, and I do not believe it will come to that. The Russians will not carry our position here whilst we are alive.” The statement was made quietly, a statement of fact, not a boast. “Our only real cause for anxiety are the Causeway redoubts.”
“You do not think the Turks will hold them, sir?” Phillip asked, recalling what Admiral Lyons had told him.
“If they were adequately armed and supported, Mr Hazard, the Turks—who, in point of fact, are Arab irregulars—would probably fight as well as any of us,” Sir Colin returned, a trifle tartly. “But they are most inadequately
armed, their gun emplacements have been hurriedly constructed and offer them little protection … and I have neither the men nor the means to give them support. The most I have been able to do is to place a non-commissioned officer of the Royal Artillery in each redoubt, to steady them and to assist them in working their guns. Frankly, I should have preferred to post them as an advance screen, without guns, and let them fall back to our lines if an attack should materialize. They are trained as skirmishers, it is the type of fighting they understand and for which they are best suited.” He sighed. “The Russians, when they do attack—and there is every sign that this is their intention—will attack in overwhelming numbers. I do not think that even a division of well trained and disciplined British troops could hold the Causeway with only nine 12-pounder guns, positioned in four widely separated redoubts … the two westernmost are unarmed, since there has been no time to place guns in them. Rustem Pasha, the Turkish commander, is a good soldier, trained in Austria, who knows his business—and he shares this view. As, indeed, do most of my officers, do you not, gentlemen?”
There was a murmur of assent from those seated about the table. Phillip said nothing and Sir Colin went on, speaking calmly and dispassionately, “Our task is to prevent the Russians dispossessing us of Balaclava Harbour, Mr Hazard, which—God willing—I am confident we can do. But I have told Lord Raglan that, unless he can spare us at least a division, I cannot guarantee to hold the Causeway. His lordship has replied that he cannot spare us even a battalion from the siege unless we are attacked by overwhelming numbers, when he will send what help he can. So we can only pray that Rustem Pasha’s Arabs will hold until support reaches them from the plateau.”
“I see, sir.” Phillip hesitated. “Do you wish me to take any message back to Admiral Lyons, sir?”
“Tonight? No, Mr Hazard, there is no need. In any event, you should rest that leg of yours, should you not, whilst you have the chance?” Sir Colin gave him one of his rare smiles. “Find yourself a place to sleep and report to me tomorrow morning. I shall be making the rounds with Lord Lucan at daybreak and you may accompany us, if you wish, and having visited our posts, you will be in a position to inform Admiral Lyons of what is going on.” He rose, reaching for the Highland bonnet which, adorned with the hackles of the three regiments of his brigade, had been presented to him after the Alma and which, with Lord Raglan’s permission, he now wore in place of his general’s plumed hat. He donned it, bade Phillip a pleasant good night, and went out, with Colonel Ainslie and his staff, to pay a final visit to the 93rd’s lines.
Phillip himself went in search of O’Leary and found him, eventually, in the darkness, working to unload ammunition with Niger’s guns’ crews. The big Irishman was doing the work of two men and keeping his comrades in fits of laughter with his droll Irish stories, so—having learnt that his gear had been stowed in a tent he was to share with two of Niger’s officers—Phillip told him to carry on. The tent was close by and he found it without difficulty. Wrapped in a blanket, he lay down on the bare ground and fell asleep almost instantly.
CHAPTER FOUR
The next day, Tuesday, October 24, was a day of feverish activity and also of considerable anxiety for the defenders of Balaclava.
Time, they were all aware, was running out and they were racing against it, spurred on by reports from patrols and outlying pickets which, throughout the day, were constantly coming in to tell of large concentrations of Russian troops in Tchergoun area of the Tchernaya Valley. Some estimated the number at between fifteen and twenty thousand; others put this higher, but all were agreed that the Russians had several thousand cavalry, consisting of Hussars and Lancers, as well as Cossacks, and that the number of field guns was much greater than earlier reports had suggested. From the Heights above Balaclava, Colonel Thomas Hurdle, in command of the Royal Marines, sent word to say that Cossack vedettes had crossed the river in order to probe and reconnoiter the British right flank. When fired on, they simply retreated out of range and continued to keep his gun positions under close observation.
On the Marine Heights and before Kadi-Koi, men sweated and strained to haul the last guns into position, to bring up and store reserves of ammunition and to do what they could to strengthen the emplacements. Engineer officers talked of constructing abatis and trous de loups in front of No. 4 Battery, with its seven naval guns but there were no men to spare for the work involved, so that finally all they could do was to hack a few more shallow trenches in the rock-hard ground.
Only the 93rd scorned to dig trenches. The Highlanders were unaccustomed to the use of spade and mattock and strangers to the shelter-trench exercise and they displayed an obstinate unwillingness to fight behind cover. Ordered to deepen the ditch to their front, they made deliberately slow progress with their task, on the grounds that, if it were made too deep, they would be unable to get out of it to attack the Russians. Knowing the quality of his splendid regiment, Sir Colin Campbell wisely allowed the order to be ignored.
Phillip spent the whole day in the saddle, snatching a few moments’ rest when and where he could. Roused before dawn by O’Leary, he shared the pannikin of rum and lime juice his orderly brought him with the two other occupants of his tent and had nothing else to eat or drink until evening. His injured leg had swollen and stiffened during the night, so that he could scarcely walk, but he managed to limp over to retrieve the Admiral’s bay from Sir Colin Campbell’s groom, who had volunteered to care for the animal overnight and, once mounted, he was able to carry out his duties as naval liaison officer with reasonable efficiency, if with some discomfort.
At first light, he accompanied Sir Colin Campbell and his staff from the 93rd’s position to the Cavalry Division’s camp, situated about a mile away in the South Valley, at the foot of the Sapouné Ridge of the Upland plateau, on which the infantry divisions were encamped. The cavalry were already standing to their horses and Lord Lucan arrived, with a large staff, to carry out his usual early morning inspection of both brigades. The Heavy Brigade paraded first, under the command of Brigadier-General the Honourable James Scarlett, a pleasant, red-faced man who, Phillip noticed, had two officers in Indian Army uniforms riding with him as aides. The elder of the two appeared to be about fifty and, of truly magnificent physique, he made a striking figure in the green and gold laced alkalak of an Indian irregular cavalry regiment. His insignia proclaimed him a full colonel but, although General Scarlett frequently turned to him to address some remark, Lord Lucan somewhat pointedly ignored his presence. His companion, a captain in the French grey and silver of the East India Company’s regular native cavalry, was a good deal younger and, with Scarlett’s other aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Elliott—whom Phillip had met —kept himself very much in the background.
“That,” Captain Shadwell said, pointing to the big man in colonel’s uniform, “is the famous Colonel William Beatson, one of the greatest experts on cavalry tactics living today. He commanded the Bashi-Bazouk cavalry at Silistria but …” He lowered his voice, “his services having been successively refused by Lord Raglan, Lord Lucan, and Lord Cardigan, he remains officially in the Turkish service—in which he ranks as a general—and acts unofficially as General Scarlett’s military adviser.”
“And the other?” Phillip asked.
Shadwell smiled wryly. “The other is Alex Sheridan, one of the heroes of Silistria, my friend … but he, too, is unofficially attached to Scarlett’s staff. Indian Army officers are out of favour with our High Command … even Elliott, though he now holds a Queen’s commission, is regarded with some suspicion because most of his service was with the Company’s Army in India where, I may say, he greatly distinguished himself and commanded Lord Gough’s bodyguard. Needless to tell you, Sir Colin does not share the general prejudice against the Company’s officers. He thinks very highly of all three and especially of Alex Sheridan, who served temporarily on his staff at the Alma. I will introduce you, if the opportunity should arise … you will like Alex, I am sure. I have worked wit
h him and I know his worth.”
“Thank you. I should like to meet him.”
“Then it shall be arranged,” Captain Shadwell promised. “A word of warning, however, Mr Hazard … Sheridan was once in the 11th Hussars and Cardigan drove him to sell his commission. I believe, as an impetuous youth, he challenged the noble earl to a duel so, as you may imagine, the subject of his lordship is … well, let us say, one to avoid. But he is the best of fellows. He married a sister of Phillip Dunloy, of the 11th, a most charming girl who is now, I believe, in Constantinople.”
Phillip repeated his thanks, studying the younger of the Heavy Brigade commander’s unofficial aides with interest, and liking what he saw in the handsome, slightly austere face.
The inspection over, Lord Lucan prepared to ride on to the Light Brigade camp but Sir Colin, deciding to visit the Turkish redoubts on the Causeway, took his leave and, as the larger party which accompanied Lucan detached itself, he trotted over to General Scarlett with a request that he might borrow one of his aides.
“I am going to do what I can to put heart into our Turkish allies in the Causeway redoubts,” Phillip heard him say. “And for that purpose, I should, I am sure, be the better for the services of one who knows them and speaks their language. Could you spare us Captain Sheridan for an hour or so, do you think?”
The genial Scarlett beamed his assent. “Of course, Sir Colin … Alex Sheridan will, I know, enjoy a few hours with his old Chief and there’s nothing for us to do now until we go on patrol, save water our horses. Thanks to Lord Lucan’s passion for this dawn inspection, we usually have time in hand.” He raised a hand in salute, his smile widening. “No doubt, sir, we shall have the pleasure of your company at inspection tomorrow morning?”
