by V. A. Stuart
There was no transport for the injured, save for the pitifully inadequate number of stretchers carried by the regimental bandsmen and the seamen’s hammocks slung on their oars … the ambulance wagons, together with all the British Army’s transport and pack horses, had been left behind in Varna. The French, Phillip saw, as he plodded up and down the steep hillside, had an extremely efficient ambulance service for their men, which was put into operation as soon as the battle ended. For the unfortunate British no provision had been made and, as well as dressings, the supplies of brandy and even of water were rapidly used up. Men with freshly amputated legs and arms were laid on beds of hay or straw, their stumps roughly dressed with the same material as their wretched bedding … there was no further comfort for them, unless a soft-hearted bluejacket parted with his tobacco and pipe.
When day dawned, the wounded who had survived the night and the agony of the surgeons’ attentions, were carried painfully on the shoulders of their naval comrades for the five or six miles which separated them from the beach. Even there, they had to wait for upwards of an hour for room in one of the boats plying between ship and shore. Only the boats of Admiral Lyons’s over-taxed squadron were available to embark the wounded … those of the battle squadron, anchored two miles off-shore, were not sent in until repeated appeals brought the grudging promise of a few.
Phillip, unshaven, filthy, and feeling like a sleepwalker, toiled all day with his stretcher party. None asked for relief, none demanded food or a rest, and, in spite of persistent rumours that the Russian wounded had fired on or attempted to bayonet those who sought to aid them, his men, he noticed, dealt as kindly and as gently with the Russians as with their own countrymen. Scores of them were brought down to the beach and once, towards dusk, finding a party of Turks callously engaged in looting the Russian wounded, his Marines angrily drove them off at the point of the bayonet.
“’Tain’t right, sir, is it?” a husky boatswain’s mate observed, gesturing to the discomfited Turks, who had paused to argue their case with some young Marines. “Them Rooskies may be our enemies but when all’s said and done, sir, the Turks is heathens, ain’t they? And they’re acting like heathens, I reckon.”
Phillip agreed grimly that they were. He felt sick and lightheaded with fatigue and lack of food, nauseated by the ghastly picture presented, as the aftermath of war, by this blood-soaked hillside which had been so valiantly contested and its possession so hardly won. Most of all he was distressed by the pitiful inadequacy of the efforts made to help those who had fallen in the battle, his own included. He watched men, whom he and his party had carried down to the beach, die there in the hot sun, because there were insufficient boats to take them to the waiting ships … and he saw them die in agony, because there was nothing with which to alleviate their pain.
The wounded bled to death because there were no dressings to staunch the flow of blood from their wounds; they endured the hideous torment of amputation without even the gulp of rum or brandy that was usually given to deaden shock. Many, all too many, were left entirely without attention, because there were not enough skilled men to attend them. Cholera cases lay beside the men injured in battle, were loaded with them into the boats and on board the ships, so that the infection spread… . He wanted to weep but had no tears left, only a bitter anger that such things should be and he himself compelled to witness, without being able to prevent them.
At dusk, Phillip sent his party back to Agamemnon for much needed food and rest but, still haunted by the faces of the dead and dying, he stumbled back to the battlefield once more, armed with a flask of whisky and some water canteens he had managed to obtain from one of the boat commanders. With these, he wandered in a sort of daze among the wounded who still lay on the hillside—the majority Russians—now kneeling beside a groaning sufferer to hold a flask to his lips, now pausing to raise another for ease from the cramped position in which, probably, he had lain since he fell. Faint cries, begging him for water to quench their burning thirst, came from all sides and he answered as many as he could. There were others besides himself, he realized as he limped wearily on, many others engaged in the same task … both military and naval officers, non-commissioned officers and men, each with a lantern and, he supposed, each moved by the same emotions of mingled pity and horror as himself.
Indeed, someone had told him that Lord Raglan had ridden over the field after the battle had ended, his face a mask of grief … and it was said that, heedless of the urging of Marshall St Arnaud, he had refused to continue in pursuit of the vanquished Russian army until the wounded had been cared for and the dead buried. From what he had seen and heard of the British Commander-in-Chief, Phillip thought, he had no reason to doubt that this was true. Lord Raglan was a gentle, compassionate man and it had been he who had decided to leave the ambulance wagons and the bulk of the British medical supplies in Varna to follow with the reinforcements … a decision forced upon him by expediency which, inevitably, he must now bitterly regret.
Phillip sighed. A burial party, carrying picks and spades instead of muskets and accompanied by an army chaplain, stumped past and he stood aside to let them go by, not envying them their melancholy duty. His last water canteen was almost empty and only a few drops of whisky remained in his flask … he was turning away, preparatory to retracing his steps to the beach in search of fresh supplies, when a voice called out to him hoarsely, in English.
“Water … please, a drop of water, if you have it. I … am parched.”
Phillip, startled, lifted his lantern and peered about him, trying to decide from which direction the voice had come. A number of Russian corpses were scattered on top of a spur of rising ground and one man moved as he approached, weakly lifting a hand to signal to him … an officer, judging by the quality of his uniform. In response to the gesture, Phillip crossed to his side and, bending over him, gently turned him over onto his back. Gold lace gleamed dully in the fitful lantern light from the aiguillette of an Imperial aide-de-camp, although the heavily braided green chasseur jacket was darkly stained with mud and blood. A tourniquet, fashioned from the cords of the wounded officer’s sash, was roughly bound about his right sleeve but this had not entirely succeeded in controlling the hemorrhage from a shattered arm, so that the sleeve, too, was soaked in blood. Its owner, for all the pain he must have been enduring, addressed Phillip with formal courtesy, his English carefully correct and almost without accent.
“Forgive me, sir … it was I who called out to you, in the hope that you might spare me a sip of water. I have lain here for a long time in the heat of the sun and the pangs of thirst have become very severe, otherwise I would not have troubled you.”
“It is no trouble.” Phillip knelt beside him, an arm about his shoulders, helping him into a semi-sitting position. He picked up the canteen, regretfully aware that it held little more now than the sip which the Russian officer had requested. “Try to drink it slowly,” he warned. “There is very little left, I am afraid.”
“Even that little will be welcome, sir,” the Russian assured him. “I am deeply indebted to you.” He drank the water, savouring it and murmuring his thanks between each sip. He was of high rank, Phillip saw, but quite young, the face which looked gratefully up at him, when the water was done, a strong and not ill-favoured one, despite its pallor and the disfiguring growth of stubble on chin and cheeks. There was something vaguely familiar about that face but … he frowned, his mind instinctively rejecting the possibility of so fantastic a coincidence. He was tired, he told himself, strained to the limit of his strength … in any case, he had only glimpsed Prince Narishkin in the distance, many weeks ago, from Tiger’s blazing upper deck and the chances of his being able to recognize him now were slim in the extreme.
“I’ll take you down to our boats,” he said, setting down the empty canteen, his voice, even to his own ears, sounding harsh and peremptory. The Russian officer moved his head, to eye him in puzzled surprise.
“It is kind of you but
… I cannot walk, even with your assistance, I fear. I broke a leg, when my horse fell with me. In any event, sir, we are at war, are we not? You gave me water … I can expect no more of you than that.”
“You can expect medical attention, Colonel,” Phillip returned. “And you shall receive it, if I can get you to my ship. Let me see if I can make you a trifle more comfortable and then I will go in search of help to carry you down to the beach. It will be light soon and our boats will be waiting there.”
Brushing aside the other’s protests, he removed his own jacket and shirt and, with strips torn from the shirt, bound the broken leg securely to its fellow, using a musket as a splint, and fashioned a sling for the injured arm. The bleeding had ceased and he removed the tourniquet although the arm, he realized, was probably past saving. The Russian officer bore his ministrations stoically and again expressed his gratitude, when the bandaging was finished.
“You are indeed kind, sir. I had not expected such kindness from an enemy.”
“I owe my life to the kindness I received, in similar circumstances, from your countrymen, Colonel,” Phillip said shortly. He saw the Russian’s brows lift and then comprehension dawn in his eyes. “Which is your ship, sir?” he asked.
“Her Majesty’s ship Agamemnon … flagship of Admiral Sir Edmund Lyons.”
“Ah, yes … a fine ship, a very fine ship. But previous to your appointment to her …” The dark eyes met Phillip’s confidently. “Surely you were with the Tiger, were you not?”
“I was, Colonel,” Phillip attempted to make his escape but the Russian grasped his arm. “No, wait, please. Your name is Hazard, is it not … Lieutenant Hazard, late of Her Majesty’s steam frigate Trojan?”
“Yes, I am Lieutenant Hazard. But …” Even to himself, Phillip could not have explained his reluctance to allow the other to identify himself. Whilst even the smallest doubt remained, he could be objective, could treat this man as he would have treated any other helpless, and defeated enemy, with compassion, even with kindness, but once he had admitted who he was then … he freed his arm and rose. “There are some soldiers over there,” he said. “I will ask them for help. We should lose no time, for your sake, in getting you to a surgeon.” He hailed the soldiers—Highlanders, he saw, as they came nearer in response to his call, three stalwart privates of the 93rd, with a grey haired sergeant, all of them carrying water canteens.
“Yes, sir?” The sergeant halted in front of him, coming smartly to attention.
Phillip gestured to the wounded Russian. “I should be obliged if you and your men would bear a hand here, Sergeant. I want to get this officer down to our boats.”
The sergeant hesitated, studying the Russian’s uniform. “A prisoner of importance wad he be, sir?”
“Of considerable importance. I believe that Admiral Lyons will want to talk to him.”
“Verra guid, sir. We’ll tak’ him doon tae the beach. We’re owing the Navy a few favours, one way and anither, are we no’, lads … and the Admiral in particular.”
The soldiers deftly contrived a stretcher from their muskets and two jackets and, with touching gentleness, lifted their prisoner on to it and hoisted him on to their shoulders. They carried him carefully over the rough ground, pausing at intervals to let him rest and, when they did so, giving him sips of water from their canteens. He must, despite their care, have suffered a good deal but he did not complain, did not open his mouth, save to thank them. Phillip limped along with the sergeant, listening to his account of the battle, at pains to avoid further conversation with the wounded Russian although conscious, several times, of the other’s dark eyes watching him in evident perplexity.
“My, yon Sir Colin Campbell … that’s a braw auld man for ye!” the sergeant said. He chuckled reminiscently. “Our lads were wanting tae press forward, seeing the Guards likely tae steal a march on us and what does Sir Colin do but ride back tae us and mak’ us tak’ up oor dressing again. ’Damn all this eagerness, 93rd,’ says he. ‘Ye’ll gang in like soldiers o’ the Hieland Brigade or you’ll no’ gang in at all.’ But then, sir, when we reached the top o’ Kourgane Hill and the Scots Fusilier Guards were racing wi’ us and the Grenadiers and Coldstreamers for tae be the first tae enter the Great Redoubt there, up leaps Sir Colin. ’We’ll hae nane but Hieland bonnets here!’ shouts he and by heaven, sir, he was gie’n his way, for they yielded us the honour. And we were cheering him till oor lungs gave out … ye must ha’ heard us from on board your ship, sir.”
“We did, Sergeant,” Phillip confirmed. “And we watched you on your way up the hill.”
“We’ve the Rooshians beaten, sir, man for man,” the sergeant told him. “They were in yon great massed squares, ye ken, wi’ bayonets facing us, and if they’d held their ground, I doubt we could ha’ broken them. But they started to run from the rear, sir, and then the panic seized them and the whole lot turned tail and made off before we’d a chance tae touch them wi’ the bayonet. Our casualties were remarkably light, sir … just fifteen killed and eighty-three wounded.”
“What are our total losses, do you know, Sergeant?”
The sergeant shrugged his broad shoulders. “Our adjutant tell’t me about fifteen hundred, killed and wounded, sir … and the French about twelve hundred. The Rooshians will ha’ lost twice that, sir, I would think and in dead, why …” He frowned. “The bodies were in the proportion of one o’ ours tae six o’ theirs, sir, as nearly as I could judge. And I’m no’ sic a bad judge … I’ve been in a burial party since dawn today, sir. ’Tis a gey pity, though, that we were not permitted tae follow up our victory and gang after them, the day after the battle. We would be in Sebastopol now, had Lord Raglan ordered us forward and left the Navy tae tak’ care o’ the wounded.”
Phillip wondered whether he was right but he did not argue. If the Allied armies had continued in pursuit of the Russians, leaving the Fleets to evacuate the wounded and bury the dead, they might well, by this time, have been in possession of Sebastopol. On the other hand, had the Russian Fleet issued from its harbour and found the British and French ships at anchor, denuded of men, it might have been a different story … with the battle squadrons destroyed and the Russian Navy in command of the Black Sea, they would not have retained possession of Sebastopol for long.
They reached the beach as dawn was breaking. The soldiers set down their burden beside the other wounded who were waiting to be taken off to the ships and Phillip dismissed them, with grateful thanks. “We’ll awa’ back and bring doon one or twa more o’ the puir devils,” the sergeant told him cheerfully. “And then maybe we’ll be on oor way tae Sebastopol. Guid morning tae ye, sir … and guid luck tae ye!”
Phillip watched him and his little party out of sight. There were, as yet, no boats but he could see them putting off from the ships, including several from Agamemnon and he walked down to the water’s edge to meet them. The first to arrive was commanded by Tom Johnson and he readily agreed to take off Phillip’s prisoner.
“Are you coming back with your Russian Colonel, Phillip?” he asked. “You look as if you could do with a meal and a few hours’ sleep. That old wound in your leg is playing you up a bit, is it not?”
Phillip nodded wryly. “Has the Admiral asked for me?”
“He asked where you were but didn’t say he needed you.”
“Then if you would be kind enough to see that my prisoner receives medical attention as soon as possible, Tom, I’ll be back in half an hour or so. Incidentally the Admiral may be interested in having a chat with him, when his wounds have been dressed … he’s an aide-de-camp to Prince Menschikoff, I have reason to believe.”
Tom Johnson pursed his lips in a silent whistle.
“Quite a prize, then. Do you know his name?”
Phillip hesitated. “Ask him,” he suggested. “I’m afraid that I omitted to do so. But I also believe that it was he who captured the Tiger.” He pointed to where the Russian Colonel was lying. “That’s him, over there. Green cavalry uniform, a
rm in a sling, and a broken leg splinted to a Minié rifle … you can’t mistake him,”
“Where are you going, Phillip? Surely it’s time you allowed yourself some rest? You aren’t fit yet and—”
Phillip cut him short. “I see a boat putting off from Trojan, Tom. I’d like to pass the time of day with whoever’s in command of her but I won’t be long. Since you’re kind enough to feel concern for me, I’ll make your next trip back with you, I give you my word.”
“I shall hold you to it, Phillip,” Tom Johnson warned. He turned to his coxswain. “Right, cox’un, I want two men with a stretcher to pick up a Russian Colonel who is lying over there …” he repeated Phillip’s description. “Handsomely now and careful with him, he’s badly hurt.”
Tom Johnson’s boat, with its cargo of wounded Russians, was on its way back to Agamemnon when the boat from Trojan grounded on the beach. To his delight, Phillip recognized Martin Fox in the sternsheets, with Midshipman O’Hara at the tiller. They both greeted him warmly and O’Hara wrung his hand with such vigour that he was compelled to cry for mercy.
“You don’t know your own strength, Mr O’Hara,” he said, with mock severity. “But I take it, from your presence here in such rude health, that you suffered no ill-effects from your swim back from the poor Tiger two months ago?”
“None, sir,” O’Hara assured him. “We all got back, except you and Able-seaman Lacey, sir. But …” He glanced uncertainly at Martin Fox and bit back whatever he had intended to say. “I’ll take charge of the shore party, sir,” he offered, “if you would like to talk to Mr Hazard.”
Fox hesitated, a wave of embarrassed colour surging into his cheeks. Then he took Phillip’s arm and led him out of earshot of the boat’s crew. “You look ill, Phillip,” he said, his tone flat. “Do you want to be burdened with a long story of our troubles?”
