Stevensen. This is the Swedish diplomat whose house I broke into in Malta.
Jack opened his mouth to speak and closed it hurriedly as the Russian straightened up. 'I am Grigory Kutuzov, Major, Plastun Cossacks.'
'I am Major Snodgrass of the 113th Foot.'
'And this?' Kutuzov motioned to Jack.
'Jack Windrush, sir, Lieutenant, 113th Foot.' Jack answered automatically. He held Kutuzov's gaze, knowing the Cossack had recognised him.
'Have any of you been wounded?' The surgeon asked. 'If so, I will attend to you as soon as I have fixed up this poor chap. If not, please leave me in peace.'
Jack heard Colonel Murphy's cough before he arrived. 'What's all this?' Murphy looked at them through bloodshot eyes. 'Why are two of my officers standing here when they should be in the trenches with the men?'
'We brought back two prisoners, sir,' Snodgrass said. 'This gentleman is Major Kutuzov.'
'Does it need two officers and two men to escort two prisoners?' Murphy coughed again, spitting up blood. 'Snodgrass, make your report, Windrush; take these two men back to the trenches where they belong. I won't have anybody saying the 113th is deficient in their duty.'
Kutuzov grunted. 'My men will say that the 113th are not gentlemen. My officers will report your dishonourable conduct to General Raglan.'
Jack saw an expression of dismay cross Murphy's face. 'My regiment is as honourable as any in the British Army.' He glanced at Jack, 'I ordered you back to your post, Windrush!'
'Yes, sir,' Jack said and ushered Logan and Riley before him. He wanted to hear what was being said but an order was an order.
'That cut-your-throat Ruski was a bit of a blackguard, sir,' Riley said. 'I did not much care for him.'
'Nor he for us, Riley,' Jack said. He ducked as a Russian shot hit the ground twenty yards away, sending shards of rock as deadly as shrapnel all around. 'You'd think we were enemies or something.'
'There was more than that, sir,' Riley said softly. 'He was the fellow from Dar-il-Sliem in Malta, and he knew us right away.'
'I am aware of that, Riley,' Jack said as all his hopes of putting his dishonourable spying activities behind him vanished.
Chapter Twelve
Siege of Sebastopol
October 1854
The bombardment began on the morning of the 17th October. After days of preparation, days of taking Russian artillery fire without retaliating, the Allies were at last hitting back. The Russians, seemingly supplied with endless ammunition, greeted the cold dawn with desultory shelling, aiming at the so-far silent Allied artillery.
'There they go,' Coleman grumbled as he huddled into his greatcoat and hugged the nearest gabion. 'If it's not bloody sharpshooters, its bloody artillery firing at us. You'd think they had nothing better to do that blast away at the bloody 113th, these Ruskies.'
'Aye,' Riley said, 'you'd think there was a war on or something.'
'About time we fired back,' Logan lifted his musket, 'but we haven't even got a decent musket between us.' He turned to Jack. 'Hey. Sir, when are we getting these new Minie rifles? These old Brown Bess things are nae good at all. Wellington rejected this one before Waterloo.'
Most of the British regiments had taken possession of the new Minie Rifle, which was far superior to the smooth bore Brown Bess musket that the British soldier had carried since the days of Marlborough.
'It will fire, and it will kill,' Jack knew it would be bad for discipline if he agreed with Logan. 'It was good enough to defeat the French, and it will be good enough to defeat the Russians.'
Logan looked as if he was going to continue his complaint, just as the British guns opened up. 'Jesus,' he said, 'we're firing at the buggers!'
'So we are,' Jack said.
At half past six that morning a solitary signal gun sounded from the Allied camp and the artillery began their long-awaited bombardment of Sebastopol. Seventy-three British and fifty-three French guns opened fire, backed by the broadsides of the Royal Navy and the French fleet. After their exertions in the trenches, the 113th was not expected to take part in any infantry assault if the bombardment was successful and breached the outer Russian defences. Instead, they stood up behind their frail barricades and watched the results.
'What a show!' Elliot said. 'They say it's the biggest artillery duel in history.'
Jack nodded. He could hardly hear Elliot's words through the incessant pounding of the cannonade.
With the allied lines around 1300 yards from Sebastopol, the tremendous conical shot from the 68- pounder Lancasters and 32- pounder naval guns and from every other piece of artillery the Allies possessed hammered away at the batteries and walls of Sebastopol, as the Russian artillery replied shot for shot and shell for shell.
'They say that the walls will collapse this morning,' Elliot nearly bounced with excitement. 'And then the Russians will capitulate.' He scanned what he could see of the walls through the drifting smoke, as if searching for a white flag.
'Two days,' Fleming said. 'At the least, two days. The Russians are a stubborn breed. They will hold out until we have flattened all their defences and our men have stormed their fortress.'
'This is hotter than the attack on Rangoon,' Jack said, 'and I thought that was hotter than hell.'
'That was only a skirmish,' said Elliot, who had not been there. 'This is war! They say over two thousand guns are firing!'
'Who says?' Jack asked mildly.
Elliot looked at him and shrugged. 'Somebody,' he said vaguely.
The Russians had as many guns as the Allies, positioned behind solid stone and secure earthworks and were fighting in their own country. Using Haverdale's telescope, Jack could watch the Russian artillerymen as they laboured at their guns every bit as feverishly as the British worked theirs. He could hear the whizz and howl of shot passing over his head in both directions and feel the shudder as shot ploughed into the earth or against the sandbags along the line of his trench.
'For the love of God!' That was Thorpe, cursing and struggling as a Russian shot smashed down the sandbag wall behind which he had been sheltering. Jack reached him as he sprawled face up in the bottom of the trench with legs kicking and a burst sandbag rapidly emptying its hundredweight of soil on top of him.
'Am I hit, sir? Am I dead?'
'Not yet, Thorpe!' Jack shoved the bag aside, ducked as another shot screamed above his head and helped Thorpe up. 'You're still alive.' Thorpe was shaking. 'Take a deep breath man and return to duty.'
'Yes, sir.'
Elliot cheered. 'Oh good shot, sir!'
A British shell had landed on the barrel of a Russian cannon directly opposite the 113th, upending the gun and scattering its crew. More followed as the British gunners exploited their success. Someone on the Russian side was screaming, the terrible sound reaching across to the British lines. Nobody commented on that. They had heard too many British wounded yelling in agony to celebrate or commiserate: the untried army was learning the rules.
About three hours into the artillery battle there was a tremendous explosion from the French lines, with a massive cloud of white powder smoke rising high and then spreading across the front.
'What the devil… 'Fleming ducked to the bottom of the trench.
'Elliot,' Haverdale ordered, 'off you go and find out what happened.'
Elliot was back within half an hour; white-faced except where powder smoke had smeared him. 'The Ruskies hit a French powder magazine,' he said. 'There's dead men and wounded men everywhere. It's awful.'
Within the hour there was another explosion from the French side, and their fire slackened and stopped.
'We're on our own now,' Snodgrass said. 'That's best. We don't need the blasted Froggies anyway; they're a liability.'
'They're a damned sight better organised than we are, sir,' Haverdale said, just as a British shell exploded within the Great Redan, blasting it wide open and tumbling down the walls. The Russian guns fell momentarily silent. Jack saw a body sprawled among
the shattered stones, blood pumping from a severed limb.
'Now!' Haverdale shouted, 'now's the time.' He stood up. 'The Russians are reeling; put the infantry in now!'
Nothing happened. There was no order to attack, no frantic bugle call prompting the British infantry to swarm across the rough ground to take the Great Redan while the Russians were at their most vulnerable. The British artillery continued to pound away as the Russians rectified the damage.
Jack had another idea of leading the 113th in a wild charge to capture Sebastopol, end the war and bring glory to the regiment and himself. He glanced around, knowing his men would follow, but a dozen British soldiers could not capture Sebastopol on their own. It was not a viable proposition. He watched as the Russians remounted a gun and had it back in action; then a second and the third; the chance had gone; the siege must continue.
Jack was aware of the flash an instant before he heard the sound, followed by a period of utter confusion. He was aware of being thrown into the air with a terrible roaring in his ears and a sensation of floating; when nothing much mattered except his overwhelming but transient desire to laugh. He landed on something soft, and lay there, unable to breathe as some mighty weight crushed down on him. He gasped for air, seeing only darkness; he had no cohesive thought.
I am dead. I am dead without having kissed a girl yet alone had a woman. What a waste of a life. I wish I had spoken longer to Helen.
'Sir?' the voice came from far away, disembodied, distant, something detached from this reality of black solidity. It had nothing to do with him. It was only a voice.
'Sir?' It came again, small, insignificant.
Jack shifted slightly, opened his eyes and closed them quickly as a searing light blinded him. 'What? Leave me alone.' He heard the echo of his own words, like a shadow of somebody he had once been.
Rough hands around him, somebody pulling him upright, something hard thrust into his mouth, clearing away the soil and mud. More fingers in his ears and eyes, scooping out the dirt. He blinked, closed his eyes in pain. 'Here, drink this,' Riley's voice, and then he was aware of something damp spread across his face. 'It's not his blood.'
'What?' Jack asked, instinctively swallowed and gagged at the harsh burn in his throat.
'It's whisky sir,' Logan's voice, harsh, guttural and concerned. 'I got it frae a lad in the Royals.'
'What happened?' Jack looked around. The entire section of the trench where he had been standing had vanished, flattened beyond recognition, with gabions upended and sandbags tossed this way and that. On the space where the trench floor had been was a black hole, three feet in diameter, with a sticky reddish paste that he knew had once been a man.
'That was Ogden sir,' Riley said. 'He took the full force.'
'Ogden?' That muscular, capable ex-navigator, dead, killed in an instant before he had ever had a chance to retaliate against the Russians.
'He was a good man,' Jack felt the harshness of dirt in his throat. He swallowed more of Logan's whisky, burning away the Crimea. 'Anybody else killed, Riley?'
'Jackson sir, from Lieutenant Fleming's men.'
Jack nodded: a quiet man to whom he had never spoken. 'Anybody wounded?'
'O'Keefe sir, and maybe yourself.'
Jack felt himself. 'Nothing's broken, Riley. Thank you for digging me out. How long was I down for?'
Riley shook his head. 'About fifteen minutes, sir.'
'Thank you. It seemed like eternity.' Jack shook away his confusion. 'Get the trench dug again, men. We need cover. Sandbags and spades…'
By nightfall, it was evident that the massive bombardment had not been effective. The British buried their and carried the few wounded to the gentle ministrations of the surgeon and the 113th sat at the bottom of their trench.
'Now what?' Coleman asked. 'We fired all bloody day, and the walls are still there.'
'We may as well go home,' Thorpe buried his head in his hands, 'for all the good we're doing here.'
'The generals know what they're doing,' Hitchins said. 'Wait and see.'
'Buck up lads,' Jack shared their disappointment. 'That was only one day's bombardment. Here comes the quartermaster with the ration rum.' As expected, the prospect of something alcoholic helped salved the frustrations of the siege. Jack looked toward Sebastopol, where the walls seemed as secure as ever, and powder smoke drifted from the muzzles of the Russian artillery.
'Post the pickets, Windrush,' Haverdale's eyes narrowed. 'Are you up to it? You look a bit rough.'
'I am all right, sir,' Jack said.
'If you say so. Get the pickets out then, and eat something. We 'are being relieved at three in the morning. Get some sleep until then.'
No longer as keen as he had been, Elliot took charge of the pickets as Jack, and his men ate rations of pork and onions, a hard biscuit, a mouthful of rum and half a bottle of muddy water to wash away the taste of powder smoke. Jack lay down on the foot of the muddy trench. He knew that he had done nothing to further the reputation of the 113th or himself, but he had done his duty; a soldier could do no more. Tomorrow was always another day. How many more tomorrows like this can I take?
When he closed his eyes, he was back under that pile of dirt, suffocating.
Chapter Thirteen
Siege of Sebastopol
October 1854
Colonel Murphy leaned back in his chair as the canvas of his tent rustled above his head. 'You are well aware that we are attempting to raise the reputation of the 113th, Windrush.'
Jack nodded, 'yes, sir.'
'That means that we must not only be the best of regiments in the field but also be known as gentlemen.'
'Yes, sir.' Jack stood at attention, as tense as any private soldier called before a duty officer. Major Snodgrass stood at the entrance of the tent, while Murphy's desk was a litter of papers and maps, with his holstered revolved acting as a paperweight and his sword hanging across the back of his chair. There were two glass-fronted cases behind Murphy's desk, one for the Queen's Colour and one for the Regimental Colour. While the Queen's Colour remained in place, the case holding the Regimental Colour was empty.
'You see correctly, Windrush,' Murphy said. 'Somebody has stolen the Regimental Colour.' He shook his head. 'To lose one of the colours in action is a disgrace. To lose a colour from one's tent… 'He shook his head. 'There is nothing worse.'
'Was it the Zouaves sir?' Jack asked. 'Our men have sometimes borrowed supplies from them, and they may have wished to retaliate.'
'I do not know, damn it!' Murphy said. He glowered at Jack. 'I expect my officers to find the culprit, Windrush. The regiment is disgraced by the loss, and doubly disgraced when Major Kutuzov informed me about your conduct in the line.'
My conduct sir?'Jack stiffened to attention, his eyes still on the empty display case. 'I am afraid I do not understand.'
Colonel Murphy stood up, coughed and sat back down again. 'If what Major Kutuzov tells me is correct, Windrush, then you set a trap for him.'
'The Russians were not acting according to any rules of gentlemanly conduct I have ever heard of, sir.' Jack was surprised that Murphy allowed him to explain. 'They were creeping up to our trenches at night and looping a wire over the heads of our sentries, dragging them out of the trenches and slitting their throats, sir. It is the sort of behaviour one would expect from Burmese dacoits rather than European soldiers.'
'Indeed,' Murphy said. 'I do not disagree with you, Windrush, but we are British soldiers. We fight fair and according to the rules. That is what sets us above all the other nations; that is what makes us better. We are honourable and must be seen to be beyond approach. Do you understand that?'
'Yes, sir.' Jack could only agree.
'It does not matter what tricks the enemy employs; we cannot stoop to their level; what would Her Majesty say if she heard that soldiers who hold her commission were resorting to tricks such as explosive dummies to defeat the foe.'
'I see, sir.' Jack had an image of Queen Victoria re
ading a letter sent from Lord Raglan directly to her, informing her of the reprehensible behaviour of one Lieutenant Jack Windrush of the 113th Foot. The Queen would immediately collapse in a fit and Prince Albert reviving her with smelling-salts before retiring to bed with a warm cloth over her forehead and a brace of servants dancing attendance on her. He wondered if he should tell the colonel that Kutuzov had also acted as a spy. He decided it would be impossible without admitting his behaviour in Malta. The old fellow was sick enough and knowing that one of his officers had stooped to such depths may give him an attack of apoplexy. Jack realised that Colonel Murphy was speaking again.
'So considering that Windrush, I had no option but to release the prisoners you took. Major Kutuzov will be returned to Sebastopol. That is all; dismissed.'
'Yes, sir,' Jack saluted. When he was summoned to see the colonel Jack had expected something much worse than to merely be informed that his prisoner was being sent back. Ensign Elliot had already informed him of the theft of the Regimental Colour.
'Oh and Jack…'
'Sir?' That was the first time Murphy had called him by his first name.
'I am afraid I shall have to make my displeasure at this incident known. I want you to take charge of the pickets for the rest of the week.'
'Yes, sir.'
'No more explosive dummies, Jack; all right?'
'No more, sir.'
The lines had advanced another few yards closer to Sebastopol, making the distance for any attack less, and thereby decreasing the time that the attackers would be under fire. As before, the 113th was directly opposite the Great Redan, with their forward saps probing into the ravaged dangers of no-man's land.
'Right lads,' Jack looked over his picket. They were his men, Logan, Riley, Thorpe and Coleman with O'Neill, now a sergeant, as his NCO. 'We are the closest men to the Russians so keep quiet and keep your heads down. Their sharpshooters fire at anything that moves.'
'They like to target officers, sir,' Riley said helpfully. 'That's what I heard. They will miss the chance to shoot a private if they think it gives them a better shot at an officer.'
Windrush: Crimea (Jack Windrush Book 2) Page 14
