'We're getting closer,' Jack did not reveal his thoughts.
'We are,' Elliot agreed. 'When Raglan thinks we have a parallel close enough to the walls, he will blast a breach with the artillery and in we charge.' He smacked his fist on the hard ground. 'Smack! And that's it over. Once our boys get in there with the bayonet, the city is ours.'
Jack nodded. 'I know the theory' he said and continued his examination of the allied lines. They looked well enough until he remembered that as well as the Russians within Sebastopol there was a Russian army under General Menshikov waiting inland to attack the Allies from the rear and squeeze them between two forces.
'I wish we knew the strength of Menshikov's army,' Jack said.
'He is somewhere along the Tchernaya River,' Elliot waved a vague hand. 'There's nothing to worry about. After the Alma, they'll be wary of us. He won't try an open battle again.'
'I heard where he's said to be.' Jack shifted his attention back to the British lines. The trenches faced the walls of Sebastopol, with gun batteries at irregular intervals, yet even to his inexperienced eyes, it was evident that the lines were not complete. There were gaps between the trenches.
'Rocky ground,' Haverdale had said with a shrug. 'Our lads can't dig through rocks.'
'Yes they can, sir,' Ogden, greatly daring, had said. 'We hack through a lot worse than that when we build the railways. Gunpowder can blast through the hardest of rock.'
An officious sergeant had roared Ogden to silence for daring to speak to an officer without permission, and the gaps in the British lines remained. Not that it mattered much, Jack reasoned, for the trenches did not entirely circumnavigate Sebastopol anyway.
The higher he moved, the better the view Jack had of the Allied lines. The focus of the siege was the harbour of Sebastopol, for the British were primarily a sea power with the army seen as a supporting arm. The harbours were formed into the rough shape of the letter T, with the larger of the two, the Man of War Harbour, as the upright. Sebastopol had grown around the seaport, with the main population centre as well as the barracks that Elliot had previously noticed, the dockyard and all the naval headquarters based around this Man of War harbour.
The cross-bar of the T was known as the Main Harbour, around which the Russians under Todtleben had been frantically and successfully building formidable defences in the time the Allies had allowed them. Jack shook his head; if only they had attacked immediately. He grunted: nobody has ever won a war with 'if onlys'. Todtleben's defences were mainly earthworks in a U shape, manned by regular soldiers and sailors as well as the robust, skilled dock workers.
After centuries of use, earthworks, as Jack had learned from his studies of military science, were formidable to breach. They had low silhouettes that did not invite attack, sides that were angled to deflect cannon balls and were made of thick, packed earth that merely absorbed the impact of shot. The outer Russian defences, now manned by over thirty thousand men, were equally formidable. Tall walls of earth, fortified by stone, were loop-holed for riflemen, with artillery platforms, known as bastions, to provide focal points.
'These bastions are the keys to Sebastopol,' Haverdale said soberly. 'If we can take these, then the city will fall. If we can't, then the Russians can thumb their noses at us from now until Judgment Day.'
'All of them?' Jack had not noticed Haverdale join him. 'Do you think we have to capture all the bastions?'
'Only two matter,' Haverdale pointed them out. 'There is the Malakoff. Our engineers reckon that is twenty-eight feet high, and as you can see it is stone built and semi-circular. The engineers estimate that the walls are about five feet thick, thirty feet or so in diameter and we know it holds five great heavy guns.'
'Only five?' Jack was not impressed. 'We captured larger fortifications at the Alma.'
'Not like that one,' Haverdale sounded sombre. 'Not advancing over open ground under intense rifle and artillery fire to take a position so high up. Then there is the Great Redan.'
Jack looked to the south where the Great Redan, a vee-shaped monstrosity, was close to a position known as the Barrack Battery.
'The bastions are mutually supportive,' Haverdale said, 'so if we attack one, we run into fire from the others. Hit in front and on both flanks, we will incur heavy losses and,' he jerked a thumb backward, 'we have already lost hundreds of men to cholera, and we're losing more every day.' He pulled a cheroot from his pocket lit it and puffed out a plume of blue smoke. 'This will not be an easy war to win.'
Surrounding the city was the Upland, a rough, windswept or sun-baked shelterless plateau that rose to three thousand feet. It was here that the bulk of the Allied army had camped and from here the trenches probed toward the city. The French occupied the left with one flank protected by the sea and their right resting on the British lines. On the right, the British right flank was exposed to possible attack by any Russian force in the interior. It sat on the Inkerman Heights, an area of broken ground riddled with ravines and covered in thick scrub forestry.
In the interior, in a Crimean peninsula that was virtually unknown to the British, Jack knew that Prince Menshikov was mustering a Russian army, hoping for weakness in the British lines that he could exploit. Unless cholera and dysentery burnt itself out, all Menshikov had to do was keep his army intact and wait. With the current losses, there would be no British Army remaining within a few months.
'But we've got artillery too, sir,' Jack said, 'these new 68-pounder Lancaster guns are the best in the world.'
'Eight-inch beauties,' Elliot enthused, 'the first rifled artillery produced; they'll show the Ruskies.'
'We'll see,' Haverdale said. 'Until we do, you two would be best getting to know the trenches. Don't get caught out at night. The Russians have been sending out patrols to harass us.'
Jack nodded. 'So Elliot told me, sir.'
'That man knows too much for a new lieutenant,' Haverdale said. 'Too clever by half, him. Now, our weakness is these ravines, and in particular that one.' He pointed to the largest, where the Woronzov Road ran through the centre of the British lines on its way to Sebastopol. 'As you know the Woronzov Road divides our lines into the left and right attacks. If the Russians push there, they have a direct highway to the city, from where they can launch a sally, and they will split us in half.'
'They don't need to get into the city this way, sir,' Jack said. 'They have access across the harbour to the north, or through Karabelnaya in the very north.'
Haverdale nodded grimly. 'I am as aware of that as you are, Windrush. So as you can see, things are not all according to plan. They very seldom are in war, of course.' He stood up and watched as the Russians fired another salvo of cannon. One shot landed in a sap - a small trench - a hundred yards away, scattering a group of infantry who were digging under the instructions of a young engineer officer. The smoke cleared; a party carried away a writhing man and the work continued; one minor incident in a war that had already claimed thousands of lives.
'This war will not be over by Christmas, mark my words.' Haverdale finished his cheroot and flicked away the stump. 'The Russian is a bonny fighter when well led, and his lads are tough as teak.'
Night brought autumnal chill, and the 113th huddled into their trenches, cuddling their Brown Bess muskets and facing the distant walls of Sebastopol.
'Rations,' Jack said softly, passing around what there was to his men. 'Black bread, a small onion and a sip of rum-and-water.' He ducked as a Russian gun directly opposite fired, with the flare of the shot bright orange through the dark. He did not see where the shot landed.
'It's past time we were firing back,' Elliot grumbled. 'When we do, we'll tumble their blessed walls into the dirt, I can tell you.'
Jack nodded, unable to share Elliot's enthusiasm. He looked at his section of the line. The 113th had taken over from the 1st Foot, the Royal Scots, and were responsible for the trenches beside the Woronzov Road, with their left resting on a battery named Chapman's after its commander.
'Listen,' O'Neill whispered. 'Somebody's out there!'
'Silence, lads,' Jack passed the word along. There was another grumble of gunfire from the Russians, more shot pounding into the British positions, more flashes from the walls of Sebastopol and the acrid drift of powder smoke in the night. Somewhere, ludicrously, a dog barked, the sound homely but somehow depressing.
'This is like bloody Burma,' Coleman said, 'waiting for the dacoits to murder the sentries.'
'Stand to your arms,' Jack said, and added, 'fix bayonets!' He heard the sinister slither of steel and the significant click as the men fitted the long bayonets in place. If the Russians sent a raiding party against the 113th, they would find themselves facing some of the toughest street fighters in the British Army, and that meant the toughest in the world.
He crawled along his section of the line: Ogden was humming quietly and gave him a fleeting smile. O'Neill looked pensive; Logan was repeating some Scottish slogan 'c'mon then ya bastards' again and again; Hitchins looked nervous, so Jack patted his shoulder; Thorpe gave a small smile, 'just like Pegu, eh?' Riley was staring ahead into the black, and the Bishop sighed as he passed.
'God bless us all, sir.'
'All right Bishop? How do you feel about fighting, with you being a devout Methodist?'
The Bishop thought for a moment before he replied. 'Even Christ threw the money changers out of the Temple, sir.'
'So he did,' Jack agreed, 'so he did.'
'Listen!' Hitchins hissed, 'over there!'
There was the sound of a scuffle over to the left beyond the battery, a long, drawn-out hopeless cry, cut off, and an outburst of firing, with the muzzle flashes of muskets vivid through the night.
'Ready lads!' Jack unholstered his revolver and tried to peer into the dark.
'Hold your fire,' Snodgrass ordered urgently, 'you might shoot our own men.'
They listened as the firing died away to a few sporadic shots, then nothing. There was the sound of a man sobbing, then silence.
'What was all that about?' Elliot sounded shaken.
'We won't know until morning,' Jack said. 'Just watch your front; the Russians are up to all the tricks.'
'Should I go forward and have a look, sir?' It was not like Hitchins to volunteer.
Jack touched him on the shoulder. 'Thank you, Hitchins, but not this time. We don't know who or what is out there.' He checked the chamber of his revolver, counted the cartridges and closed it with a snap that made Riley start. Another Russian cannon fired and then silence. The dog howled.
'They're using dishonourable methods,' Colonel Murphy said after they filed wearily out of the trenches. 'They are creeping up to our positions at night and grabbing our men, then bayonetting them.'
'The dirty blackguards,' Elliot said. 'We should complain to their general. That's not war; that's murder.'
Jack agreed although he wondered where one could draw the line between a single killing that became illegal murder, and vast numbers of deaths that became a glorious victory.
'Warn your men,' Murphy said. 'We will have to think of a way to counter this foul method of fighting. It is not the work of gentlemen at all.'
'I thought it was something like that,' O'Neill said with a shrug. 'I'll pass the word on to the lads before we go back into the trenches.' He looked up as a waggon creaked to a halt, and a group of women clambered out. 'Here's trouble!'
'Trouble yourself, Corporal O'Neill.' Charlotte Riley tossed her mane of blonde hair. 'Where's that useless man of mine.'
'He's over there,' O'Neill gestured with a stubby thumb. 'About forty paces past the lieutenant in the second tent.'
Charlotte gave a brief, half mocking curtsey to Jack. 'Good day to you, Lieutenant Windrush. I am here to see Jethro'
Jack hid his smile. He had never thought of Riley having a first name and certainly never thought of him being Jethro. 'He'll be tired, Mrs Riley' he said.
'I'll soon cure him of that,' Charlotte strode away, shouting. 'Jethro! I'm here.'
Jack saw Logan and Thorpe scurry out of the tent, look back in and drag out Coleman to leave Charlotte alone with her husband. 'We don't need the British Army here, Corporal, we can just send out Charlotte Riley. The Czar would pack his crown and run to the peace table pleading for mercy.'
O'Neill grinned. 'The Czar has nothing to worry about, sir. Charlotte has no argument with him. It's Major Snodgrass I am concerned about.'
'Major Snodgrass? Because he had Riley flogged?'
'Yes, sir. Charlotte is not a forgiving kind of woman.' O'Neill was not smiling. 'If I were Major Snodgrass, I would avoid being alone with him on a dark night.'
Jack nodded. His knowledge of women was limited. While other youths in his school had expended time and energy in rolling kitchen maids and the daughters of farm servants in the hay, he had concentrated on reading military tactics and drill techniques. There had been his longing for Myat in Burma, but that had been a hopeless pursuit. There were many occasions when he wished he had a broader experience of life. 'I hope she has sufficient sense not to overstep herself and land Riley in more trouble. Officially she does not even exist.'
'We are aware of that sir.' O'Neill looked away. 'That is why I told you.'
'Thank you, O'Neill.' Jack suddenly realised that he had been allowed a glimpse into the world of the other ranks. Officers and men served in the same regiments and faced the same dangers of battle and disease, but their lives were parallel, with only occasional areas where they merged. The men knew each other's lives intimately, the good and bad, even the details of their marriages and sweethearts. Living in such close confinement as a barrack block where married couples inhabited the same room as the single men with only a hung blanket as a screen, they could hardly be otherwise.
Although he was tired, Jack could not sleep. Instead, he walked along the road toward Balaklava, stopping at the gap that overlooked the town. He stared downward, hoping that by some miracle Helen would appear. He had never felt this way about any woman before and found the sensation troubling. Thinking about her interfered with his single-minded determination to rise in the army and regain his proper position in the world.
Ever since that unfortunate meeting on the beach, she had intruded on his thoughts and unknowingly interfered in his decisions. It was like an itch that he could not scratch, except that he had no desire to lose it. Jack sighed: he knew nothing about love and romance. He had no sisters, he had hardly known his mother, or more accurately, his step-mother, except as a force of authority and a figure to fear, and his hopeless yearning after Myat in Burma had not been a success. Each had been different, but none had been as significant as Helen was. In a crisis, he could only turn to his stock of military maxims for help.
What would the old Masters of war have said about such a situation? Was Bonaparte correct when he said that 'women are nothing but machines for producing children'? Bonaparte had little time for them, yet his love affair with Josephine was famed throughout the world. He was certainly correct when he said that 'nothing is more difficult, and therefore more precious than to be able to decide.'
Jack stood on the ridge, looking down on Balaklava and knowing that he must make a decision soon, or his mind would be racked with uncertainty for the foreseeable future and that was not a good thing during a campaign.
Clausewitz would have agreed with that. 'It is even better to act quickly and err than to hesitate until the time of action is past' according to Clausewitz. He had backed that by saying that 'no military leader has ever become great without audacity.' Would Clausewitz have considered it audacious to pursue that forward, bright-eyed and entirely enchanting woman?
Jack looked backwards, where camp-fires illuminated the lines of British tents; that way lay duty and honour, and then downward to the confusion of Balaklava: this direction lay something indefinable, something he could not understand. Why am I so taken with Helen?
I am scared. The words came from nowhere. I am scared to approach that woman i
n case she ridicules me. Well dammit, what did Bonaparte and Clausewitz have to say about fear? I don't know; I only know what the greatest general of them all said about it. 'The only thing I am afraid of is fear;' well if Wellington himself thought that, then that is the best advice to follow. After all, Wellington defeated Napoleon and had a string of mistresses.
Jack found himself grinning. He did not want a string of mistresses. He wanted only one woman, and she was down there behind her shutters.
He had made the decision.
'Riley!' Jack shouted as they readied themselves for the trenches.
Riley marched to him, slammed to attention and threw a smart salute. 'Sir!'
'Is Mrs Riley still in camp?'
Riley's eyes swivelled to the side and back. 'She is about to leave, sir.'
'I would be obliged if you could ask her to perform an act of kindness for me.' God that sounded stilted. Damn it: I don't care. I'm on new territory here.
'Sir?' Riley looked confused, as well he might.
'Would you ask her to deliver this note for me,' Jack handed over a folded and sealed square of paper.
'Yes, sir.' Riley took the note as if it was more delicate than the most precious of jewels. He glanced at the address, looked at Jack and wisely said no more.
'That is all, Riley. Dismissed.'
Jack knew he was taking a significant gamble in using one of his men in such a manner. He knew it was probably bad for discipline and most likely contrary to the Queen's Regulations. And I do not care a damn.
They stood on the ridge on the right of the British lines with a pale moon above them highlighting the scene. The sounds of camp and town drifted dimly to them, while somewhere traffic rumbled on the road.
'That will be the Russians,' Jack spoke awkwardly. 'They bring supplies into Sebastopol at night.'
'Oh do they?' Helen said. 'I was most surprised to receive your note,' she sounded suddenly more enthusiastic. 'How clever it was of you to give it to the servant to hand to me rather than through Mother.'
Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2) Page 12
