Anti-Ice

by Stephen Baxter

  At length, with shot still sizzling around me, I clambered out of my shelter, raised my Minie and ran forward.

  I was greeted by the most fantastic sight.

  Siege ladders lay like pickup sticks about the plain; and men—and fragments of men—lay strewn among them, adorned with smoking shot and pieces of shell. Only one ladder, I saw, had by some miracle been raised against the redoubt’s brooding wall: its bearers lay crumpled in a muddy pile, arms and legs everywhere, at its base. And the Russian guns stared undaunted from the redoubt’s every embrasure.

  The retreat sounded and, under a renewed hail of grape from our unwelcoming hosts, we limped back to our trenches.

  And so ended my first experience of combat, Father; and that evening I lay sorely troubled. For how could the death of so many fine men be justified for such an absurd bungle?

  The next week was a grim time. For hour after hour rough carts drew up among our tents and huts, and our poor injured lads were loaded aboard and hauled off for the jolting journey to the hospital three miles away at the coast.

  Their cries and weeping were terrible to hear. And day and night, as if to mock our failure and frustration, the Russian artillery bellowed.

  No less disturbing to us were the hints we received of ructions among our Commanding Officers. Around the clock the conferences went on, and more than once I saw a grand gentleman emerge from Lord Raglan’s tent and go stalking around the camp in high dudgeon, scarred cheeks blazing with anger, white gloves slapping against jostling scabbard. And several times we saw the engineer, Traveller, trotting across the camp site to Raglan’s tent bearing mysterious plans and other specifications; and so we knew that the deployment, at last, of this strange stuff anti-ice must be under consideration.

  But of Lord Raglan himself we saw no sign. I imagined that gentleman, Father, his face drawn with care and sickness and his head full of memories of Waterloo and the Iron Duke, at the eye of a storm of disrespect and interrogation.

  At last, on 27th June, our Captain called us together. His expression grim, he informed us that Lord Fitzroy Raglan had died the previous day, the 26th; that General Sir James Simpson had been appointed our new Commander-in-Chief; and that we should prepare ourselves for a fresh assault within twenty-four hours. This assault, said the Captain, would follow “a new artillery barrage of unprecedented ferocity.”

  Then he stalked away from us, his back stiff, refusing to say any more.

  We were never told the cause of Raglan’s death. Some say he died of disappointment, after that last, failed assault on the Russian redoubts; but I cannot believe it. For even a month earlier, when he visited our camp, Father, care and fatigue had seemed etched into that noble face. Now, God forbid that you should ever see a victim of the Cholera, Sir—I have seen too many—but if you do you will, I am sure, remark on the drained, troubled appearance of that unfortunate; and so I have no doubt of the cause of Raglan’s doom.

  Men like Raglan do not die of broken hearts, I say.

  That night we retired to our muddy billets. I did not sleep well, Father, but not through apprehension, or excitement, or even the constant shouting of the artillery; rather I felt sunk in depression, I have to report, following the deaths of so many good fellows—and now of Raglan himself—to such little effect. It seemed to me that night as if the English Army itself were dying, there on the plains of the Crimea.

  We were roused at dawn. The bugles and drums were silent, but nevertheless we were told to draw up in drill formation and to prepare to advance.

  And so I turned out, my fingers jammed into my cuffs to escape the gray cold of dawn, the webbing of my Minie chafing at my unshaven neck. The barrage from the artillery behind us went on unabated; as did, I noted, the replies from the redoubts of Sebastopol, and a sick apprehension gripped me. For if the Russian guns had not been subdued, our assault would be another suicidal charge. Once again, Father, I beg that you do not think me a coward; but I had—and have—no desire to sell my life without profit, and such seemed the prospect before me at that moment.

  Then the guns behind us grew quiet, all of a sudden; and soon, as if in response, those of the Russians also lapsed into calmness. A silence fell over our camp, and it combined with the misty dawn light into a strangeness that made me wrap my arms around myself, shivering. The only motion was that of the Little Moon which rose above us, a dazzling beacon of light, setting off on another of its half-hour jaunts across the sky. I looked around, seeking reassurance in the lines of drawn, uncertain faces all around me; but comfort there was none. It was as if we had all, infantrymen, Officers and horses, been transported to some distant, gray star.

  I held my breath.

  Then, from the Allied emplacements behind me, I heard the speaking of a single artillery piece.

  I was later given an account by a friendly Artilleryman of the few moments which had preceded that single shot. This gunner had watched as the engineer Josiah Traveller approached a particular emplacement, his stovepipe hat screwed tightly down around his ears. The fellow wore thick leather gloves which, according to my reporter, added up to a rather comical effect; and at arms’ length he carried a large metal cask that shone with frost, as if it were as cold as death. Following Traveller came Sir James Simpson himself and several of his staff, their faces grim, their epaulettes and decorations gleaming. At the muzzle of the gun the engineer placed his cask on the ground and, by loosening clasps, cracked it open. Its central cavity was quite small, my friend reported, so that the walls of the cask were some inches thick and might, he speculated, have contained some substance which kept the temperature of the cask unnaturally low.

  Inside the cavity was a single shell, of size about ten pounds. This the engineer lifted as delicately as if it were a child and placed it gently in the muzzle of the artillery piece. Then Traveller stood back.

  The gun fired, with a muffled explosion like a cough. Within seconds that single, precious shell was arcing above my head, bearing a few ounces of anti-ice to Sebastopol.

  From my position I could not see the town itself, but still I peered over the heads of my colleagues in anticipation as that shell made for the battered fortress; I even pushed back my cap and peaked my hand over my eyes, the better to see.

  I have since learned something of the properties of that strange substance anti-ice, Father. It is mined from a strange seam in the frozen ocean of the South Pole, and as long as it is maintained at those frosty temperatures it is perfectly safe. Once it is heated, however—

  Well, let me describe to you what I saw.

  The shell shriek fell away.

  Then it was as if the Sun had touched the Earth.

  The horizon in the direction of Sebastopol exploded into a silent sea of light. It was a light that tore into the skin, so that one could feel the very blisters as they rose. I staggered back, my cries of shock and horror joining those of my companions. I dropped my hand from my forehead and stared at it; scorched and blistering, the hand was like a grotesque waxwork, not part of my body at all. Then the pain reached my dull wits and I yelled; and as I did so I felt my scorched cheeks crack and ooze, and I soon shut up. But, Father, I soon learned that I had once more been undeservedly fortunate; for my hand had shielded my sight from the worst of that shock of light, while all around me fellows had crumpled to the soil, pressing their burnt eyes. Then—only a few seconds after that great optical concussion—there came a wind like the breath of God. I was bowled over backwards, and I tucked my blasted hand into my uniform to protect it; I clung to the ground amid a hail of dust and screamed into the wind.

  The heat was astonishing.

  Long minutes later that gale subsided, and I staggered to my feet. Men, burned and weeping—weapons—the remains of tents—terrified horses—all lay scattered over the ground like the toys of some capricious child-giant. Father, within less than a quarter-hour our camp had been devastated to a far greater extent than either the Russians, Dame Cholera, or Generals January and F
ebruary had managed hitherto.

  Meanwhile, over Sebastopol, a cloud shaped like a black hammer rose into the air.

  A fellow beside me lay weeping, his eyes pools of cloudy liquid—horribly like the eyes of a boiled trout. For the next minutes I crouched by him and grasped his hand, mutely offering what comfort I could. Then an Officer came by—his uniform was scorched and unrecognizable, but the remains of a sword still swung at his hip—and I called up to him. “What have they done to us, your honor? Is this some devilish new weapon of the Cossacks?”

  He paused and looked down at me. He was a young man, but that infernal light had blasted lines of age into his face; and he said: “No, lad, not the Cossacks; that was one of our own.”

  At first I could not understand him, but he pointed to the dispersing cloud over Sebastopol, and I came to see the astonishing truth: that the engineer’s single shell, impacting Sebastopol, had caused an explosion of such severity that even we—at a distance of three miles—had been incapacitated.

  Clearly the power of the novel projectile had been grossly underestimated; otherwise surely we would have been confined to our trenches and foxholes.

  Slowly I became aware that the Russian guns, a constant chorus since my arrival on the Peninsula, were stilled at last. Had we then achieved our main objective? With this one, single, devastating blow, was Sebastopol laid low?

  A trace of exultation, of victory, coursed through my veins; but my own pain, the devastation around me, and that looming thunderhead over Sebastopol, all worked rapidly to subdue me; and from those left standing near me I heard not a word of rejoicing.

  It was still only seven-thirty.

  The Officers organized us quickly. Those of us reasonably able-bodied—which included me, Father, once my poor hand was salved, bandaged up and wrapped in a thick mitten—were put to work aiding the rest. We erected our tents once more and restored the camp into something resembling a British military operation.

  Then the lines of hospital carts began to form.

  So we were occupied until noon, by which time the sun was high overhead. I sat in the shade, salt sweat coursing into my burns, and ate Bully Beef and sipped water through cracked lips.

  Though the thunderhead was cleared now, there was still not a sound from the Russian guns in Sebastopol.

  At about two of the afternoon we were ordered to form up for the final assault. But, Father, a strange assault it was going to be: we carried our Minies and ammo, yes; but also we hauled trench shovels, picks and other tools, and we loaded up carts with all the blankets, bandages, medication, water we could spare.

  And so we set off over the last three miles to Sebastopol.

  It took two hours, I would guess. After ten months of artillery bombardment and siege warfare the land was an ocean of churned, crusty mud; continually I slipped into shell pits, and before long all of us were soaked by foul-smelling, brackish water. And everywhere I came across the rubble of warfare: cracked shell casings, abandoned kit, the wreckage of artillery pieces… and one or two ornaments of a more grisly nature which, with respect, Father, I will forbear to describe.

  But at last we reached Sebastopol; and I stood for some minutes on a rise overlooking the town.

  Father, you will recall my earlier description of that town as it lay intact within its walls, which had bristled with weaponry. Well, now it was as if a great boot had stamped—I can think of no other way to describe it. A crater perhaps a quarter-mile wide lay plumb in the center of the city, close to the docks; and I could see how the gouged earth continued to steam, the rocks and slag glowing red hot. And around this crater was a great circle, where the houses and other buildings had been razed, quite neatly; one could see the outlines of their foundations, as if one were staring at a giant architect’s plan—although here and there a chimney stack or fragment of wall, scorched to blackness, clung defiantly to the vertical. Beyond that region of devastation the buildings appeared to have remained largely intact—but of windows and roof slates there was scarcely an example. And in several quarters of the town we saw great fires raging, apparently uncontrolled.

  The stout defensive walls of the town were trails of rubble now, toppled outwards by the blast; the muzzles of wrecked artillery pieces pointed at random to the sky. And the redoubts lay shattered; Russians in their shapeless uniforms sprawled over the ruins of their guns.

  Beyond this infernal landscape the bay lay glimmering blue, quite unperturbed; but the corpses of several vessels lay adrift in the water, their masts snapped.

  For some minutes we stared slack-mouthed. Then the Captain said, “Come on, lads; we have our duty to perform.”

  We formed up once more. A bugle and drum struck up, their rousing sounds sharply misplaced, and we marched across the wreckage of the walls.

  So, at last, at about four in the afternoon, the British Army entered Sebastopol.

  At first we carried our weapons at battle ready and moved in good military order, with scouts and lookouts; but the only sound was the crunch of glass and smashed masonry under our boots, and it was as if we marched across the surface of the Moon. Even on the outskirts of town the buildings were uniformly scorched and blackened, and I was reminded of that terrible heat which had blazed from the heart of the city. We came across one house which looked as if it had been sliced open, so that we could see within to the furnishings and decorations of its unfortunate occupants. Smashed vehicles of all sizes littered the streets, dead or injured horses trapped in their harnesses still.

  And the people:

  Father, they lay everywhere as they had fallen, men, women and children alike, their bodies twisted and cast down like dolls, their dumpy Russian clothing torn, bloodied and smouldering. Somehow the attitudes of these unfortunate corpses made them seem less than human, and I felt only a sickened numbness.

  Then we met our first living Russian.

  He came limping through a doorway which no longer led anywhere. He was a soldier—an Officer, for all I could tell—and around me I could hear chaps murmuring and fingering their arms. But this poor fellow had lost his cap, carried no weapon of any kind, and, one foot dangling behind him, was managing to walk only by supporting himself on a crutch improvised from a piece of timber. The Captain ordered us to shoulder arms. The fellow began to jabber in that guttural tongue of theirs, and gradually the Captain worked out that there were several people, perhaps a dozen, trapped in the wreckage of a schoolhouse, some hundreds of yards away.

  A detail of chaps was issued with shovels and other gear and sent with the Russian.

  And so it went, for the next several days. Father, as far as I know not a shot was fired in anger in Sebastopol after the falling of the anti-ice shell; instead we worked side by side with the Russian survivors—and with the French and Turks—in the guts of that felled port.

  I remember a child, lying on her back, a red scarf wrapped around her head. She held one hand up to the sky which had betrayed her, and her fingers burned like candles. One chap came out of the wreckage of a sailmaking factory, hauling himself by his arms only; he left a red, glistening trail as he moved, like some ghastly slug…

  Father, I have chosen to relate these things to you; but I know that you will not allow Mother or young Ned to become distressed by a repetition of this account.

  The greatest single labor was clearing the corpses; but this we could not achieve fast enough. After a few days under the hot Crimean sun the stink of the place was impossible to bear; and across our mouths we all wore kerchiefs soaked in “raki.”

  The strangest sight I saw came after a few days, when I was sent into that crater at the heart of the town. We had to wrap soaked rags around our boots as, even then, the masonry was still hot enough to burn the skin. Here I found a slab of wall which poked like a large, irregular tombstone out of the shattered earth. This wall was uniformly blackened—save for an oddly shaped patch close to ground level; and this patch, I realized after some time, was in the shape of an old woman, mak
ing her painful way along the street.

  Father, the wall bore the shadow cast by that poor lady in the light of the anti-ice shell. Of the lady herself there was of course no sign; and neither did we find any survivors in that part of the city.

  More than once I came across the engineer, Traveller, laboring with the rest of us; and once I saw tears coursing down his grimy cheeks. Perhaps, we speculated, even he had not appreciated the devastation to be achieved by his invention. I wondered how this Traveller would spend the rest of his days; and what other miracles—or curses—of anti-ice he might spawn.

  But I did not approach him, and I know no one who did.

  There is little else to say, dear Father. I was relieved of my work in Sebastopol once fresh troops and equipment arrived from Britain and France; now, after nine or ten days, the town—though wrecked—is a little less like a scene from the “Divine Comedy;” and the harbor is beginning to function again.

  The months of siege are, of course, at an end, and the war is won. But since our occupation of the town we have learned that prior to the anti-ice bombardment the Russians were already losing a thousand lives a day, thanks to our artillery shots and the various privations they suffered. Their mood apparently had been growing increasingly desperate, and—I am told—their Officers had been considering a final gamble, a break-out and assault which, I am confident, we could have fielded and so won the war.

  So, Father—did the anti-ice have to be used? Could we have won without such suffering among the population of the town?

  I fear that only God, the Master of more Worlds than this, knows the answers to such questions.

  As to myself: the Doctor has told me that I should regain partial use of my burnt hand, with time, though it will never be a pretty sight, and I will never hold a fiddle with it! And speaking of pretty sights—I must report this in advance of the meeting and reconciliation between us which, I hope, will one day come—I fear that my face has been scarred by the anti-ice flames, and will remain so marked throughout my life—all save the distinctive and quite unmistakable shadow of the hand which I had held cupped over my eyes, at the moment when that unusual shell fell on Sebastopol.