When the smoke cleared, the fusiliers could see that the Russian gunners had seen sense. With a haste born of fear, they hurried to limber their guns before the British fired on them once more.
The British gunners would not let the Russian gunners skulk away unmolested. The artillerymen were serving their guns with intensity and rivers of sweat streamed down their powder-stained faces as they raced to reload. Within moments, another British volley crashed out, and then another, maiming and killing indiscriminately.
The fusiliers watched in subdued silence as the British artillery exacted a dreadful toll on the retreating enemy gunners. Soon they witnessed the devastating power of artillery close up as the few British casualties were brought back towards the rear. One young hussar trooper had been draped unconscious across his saddle. His body jerked like a rag doll, a bleeding, tattered stump all that remained of one of his legs. The gory sight of the man’s ripped limb, the bone and flesh mangled into something unrecognisable as being human, turned many a stomach among the watching men.
This time the fusiliers had been able to stand on the sidelines and watch as other young soldiers experienced the raw horror of war. A few miles to the south the main body of the Russian army waited. Tomorrow the King’s Royal Fusiliers would have to take their place in the battle line and face the stark reality of battle for themselves.
The battalion spent the night on the same ground they had occupied through the long, dull afternoon. The fusiliers were grateful to be bivouacked close to the River Bulganak. This gave them easy access to fresh water, even if the thin stream had been churned to a muddy soup by the incessant passage of men and horses, and the thick ferns and lavender bushes that grew on its banks provided fuel for their fires. By some miracle, the army had delivered fresh rations, including the blessed casks that would supply them with their treasured ration of rum. Only the columns of smoke on the horizon gave a reminder of what they would face the following day. The Russian army had torched the closest villages, denying any sanctuary to the invading armies.
Four rivers blocked the allies’ route to Sevastopol. The first, the Bulganak, was now behind them. That left the Alma, the Kacha and the Belbek. Already rumours were spreading through the army. It was said that fifty thousand Russian infantrymen waited on the formidable heights that bordered the River Alma, supported by a huge number of cavalry and cannon. Their position was strengthened by fearsome fortifications constructed in the time gifted to the Russian defenders by the British army’s lethargic preparations and delayed advance. The Russian general, His Serenity Prince Alexander Sergeevich Menshikov, was reputed to have boasted that he could hold the position for weeks, even in the face of the most determined assault. The Alma would run red with the blood of the hated invaders.
Jack closed his eyes in pleasure as he relished the flavour of the scalding hot tea, a welcome contrast to the tartness of the green coffee he was usually forced to drink.
His body ached and he craved the oblivion of sleep but first he would check on his men. He threw the dregs of his tea on to the dusty ground and forced himself to his feet.
The men of the Light Company lay sprawled around their hastily constructed fires. They were now adept at making the best of wherever they found themselves. Jack had released his two subalterns, giving them leave to visit their friends in the other companies. It left him alone and for once he did not feel his usual jealousy of the companionship they shared with their mates. He was content to spend the time with his company. Tonight, it was where he belonged.
Jack felt a fierce affection for the men. The redcoats enjoyed little in the way of comfort, earned a pittance and endured terrible hardships and ferocious discipline. Yet they faced it all with a stoicism that was scarcely credible. With their mates at their side they would go into battle with the same resolute spirit that they dealt with everything else the army threw at them. Jack knew now that to lead a company of soldiers was a privilege that few deserved, him least of all. It had been a terrible presumption to think that he was worthy of the commission he had stolen. He had believed the life of an officer was easy, full of undeserved privilege and comfort. He had not seen the responsibility that the officers carried constantly. Now he understood what it meant to lead men. Yet as heavy as that burden was, he would not surrender it for anything.
‘Evening, sir.’ The greeting came from Fusilier Dodds, one of the company comedians. He was too fly for his own good which got him into far too much trouble with Sergeant Baker and meant he was still an ordinary fusilier even after fifteen years’ service. He was also one of the most popular soldiers in the company. He looked a typical rogue, his scrawny frame and gaunt face so typical of the soldiers who hailed from the rookeries of London. Like many of the fusiliers, Dodds had joined the army to get away from the dreadful conditions of the workhouse and a lifetime of grinding poverty.
‘Good evening, Dodds. Was it warm enough for you today?’
‘Warm, sir? It was fair roasting. Still, it weren’t as bad for us as it was for them Turkish fellows.’
‘And how’s that, Dodds?’ Jack asked cautiously, sensing this was exactly the question Dodds wanted him to ask.
‘Well, they’s Hottoman’s, ain’t they?’ Dodds’s face creased into a grin. His messmates groaned at the desperate pun.
‘I expect you spent all day thinking that up,’ Jack said wryly.
‘He must’ve, sir,’ Fusilier Troughton, one of Dodds’s messmates, called. ‘He was pulling such a face all day we thought he was sickening for the bleeding chokey. It must’ve been him thinking!’
The rest of the small group doubled up. The laughter was much too loud for such low jesting. The men were clinging to their humour to contain the terror that bubbled below the surface. It was the night before battle and no sane man could face the future without fear. The dread picked at their courage and gnawed at their spirits. Yet not one of the fusiliers would admit to their fears.
Jack left the men laughing, his exhausted body and throbbing back finding walking easier than standing in one place. The men at the next fire looked up as he came close, their grimy faces turning to stare at him apprehensively as he approached.
‘Good evening.’ This time Jack spoke first. The group was made up of the new recruits who had joined the company with Slater. In these early days, they found it easier to stick together. It would take time for them to fit in, to be accepted as belonging to the company. It was not something that could be forced or hurried.
Fear and anxiety was etched on the pale faces of the newcomers. Without the easy camaraderie of Dodds and his messmates, the newest additions to the company would have to face their fear quietly, hiding the terror behind the silent domestic rituals of cooking their rations and settling to rest.
The men seemed nervous at the sudden appearance of their company commander and just bobbed their heads in acknowledgement of his greeting. One of their fellow recruits had collapsed on the march, claimed by the searing heat of the sun. The company had lost three men that day, losses it could do without so close to battle. None of the victims had died but all were lost to the confusion of the army’s system of caring for the sick and wounded. No one expected to see them again. Even if they returned to health, it was more than likely they would be sent to another battalion and their entries in the company books crossed through.
Jack left the new recruits to eat their rations in peace, remembering how daunting the presence of an officer could be. Nothing he could say would allay their fear or banish the thoughts of what awaited them tomorrow. They would simply have to cope, as every man had to. Alone.
‘Hello there, sir. Have you not had your fill of walking? I know I bloody well have.’ The singsong accent of Welsh Davies welcomed Jack into the group of men gathered round the next campfire.
He walked into the circle of light, its warmth reeling him in like a trout on a lure. ‘Do you call t
hat walking? I thought it was more like a pleasant stroll in the countryside.’
‘T’were that, Captain,’ the broad West Country baritone of English Davies rumbled from the far side of the fire. The two Davies were never far from each other, as if their common name created a natural bond between them.
‘Thank you, English.’ Jack looked round the small circle. ‘Make sure your rifles are ready for tomorrow. I have a feeling you’re going to need them.’ Jack offered the unnecessary advice more for something to say than for any more practical reason. These were his best men. They seemed to be drawn to each other, their experience and skill forming them into a special cadre at the core of the company.
‘I plan to sleep with my Minié, Captain, and I’ll caress her sweet curves all night long, so I will.’ This from Dawson, the smallest man in the company. Hoots and whistles greeted his comment.
‘Why you said the same about your old Bessie,’ Taylor, who was old enough to be Dawson’s grandfather, said in mock disapproval. He was referring to the Brown Bess musket that had only recently been replaced with the new, more powerful, Minié rifle.
‘Now don’t you go getting all excited, old man. At your age it could be the death of you.’ Dawson chuckled. ‘I do miss my old Bessie, I’ll give you that. But you can’t beat getting your hands on a younger model, now can you?’ Dawson slapped the stock of his Minié rifle.
Jack grinned at their tomfoolery, glad his fusiliers had the good spirits to chide and tease one another.
Taylor threw a lump of rock-hard biscuit in Dawson’s direction. The young fusilier caught it and took a teeth-shattering bite out of it. His grimace of pain set the men off laughing again and Jack used the moment to move on.
A slow and laconic round of applause came from the darkness on the very edge of the Light Company’s lines.
‘Bravo!’ Slater’s voice mocked Jack from the shadows. ‘Trust you to play the toff.’
Slater had taken to making his own private bivouac, away from the hatred and fear of the company. Now, like a spider crawling from its web, he slunk out of the darkness, his shadowy form huge in the flickering light of the campfires. Instinctively Jack’s hand moved to the handle of his revolver.
Slater noticed. ‘Oh, you’d like to shoot me, would you, Lark?’ Slater stepped forward, suddenly very close and very threatening. ‘Well, here I am, all on my lonesome. Go ahead, shoot me.’
Jack was sorely tempted. He looked into Slater’s moist brown eyes and felt a surge of hatred so intense it threatened to overwhelm all reason.
With an effort, Jack brought his emotions under control. ‘Why don’t you just bugger off and desert? We certainly don’t bloody want you,’ Jack hissed.
Slater’s thick moustache twitched. ‘Damn you, I’m no coward. I’m not frightened of the Russians and I’m most certainly not frightened of you. But you, now you should be frightened. You should be shitting in your fucking breeches, boy.’
Jack gritted his teeth and said nothing.
‘You took away my stripes.’ Slater’s voice quivered with emotion, something Jack had never expected the brute of a man to reveal. It was like hearing armour crack. ‘I thought about peaching on you, telling the whole world what a fraud you are, you by-blow of a doxy,’ Slater went on quietly and evenly, his emotion back under control. ‘But then I figured why give the army the bother of dealing with you when I could get so much pleasure out of doing it myself.’ He licked his lips. ‘You’d better take care. There’s no knowing what could happen in the heat of battle. Why, I hear some officers have been hit in the back, shot by their own men, can you believe?’
Slater stepped back and without a word Jack turned away towards the nearest fire, as if the heat of its flames could melt the chill that gripped him.
Few men were woken by the harsh notes of the reveille. Many were already up and about, abhorring the idea of wasting what could be their last living hours in sleep. The quiet murmur of voices could be heard throughout the army, some in conversation with their fellows, others in prayer, even those most vehement atheists returning to the comforting words of religion.
The sun rose lethargically as if it, too, was unwilling to start the day. The morning was chilly, the men and their uniforms damp from the heavy dew. Fires were coaxed into life and the men breakfasted on salt pork and biscuit. Then it was time to form up.
By six thirty, the men stood ready in their ranks, waiting for the command to march. Their coats steamed gently under the climbing sun. Horses pawed at the ground and flicked their tails, the men fidgeted. And waited.
By seven thirty, there was still no order to advance. Exasperated officers decided enough was enough and ordered their men to sit. The men sank gratefully to the ground and the officers gathered to vent their frustration at the maddening delay and the incompetence of their seniors.
‘Digby-Brown!’
The lieutenant heard his captain’s loud summons and reluctantly left the circle of subalterns. Already he was sweating profusely, his thin whiskers slick from the steady stream that ran down from underneath his shako.
‘Yes, sir?’
‘Nothing is going to be happening here for a while so I’m of a mind to see what lies ahead. I’m leaving you in charge of the company. I’ll return should the generals condescend to present us with orders to advance.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Digby-Brown licked his lips nervously as he risked a request. ‘Would you mind if I came with you?’
‘Yes, I would.’ Jack wanted to get away from the cloying attention of his fellow officers. Taking Digby-Brown with him would be as bad as joining in one of their pointless discussions.
Digby-Brown’s shoulders slumped at the unkind reply. ‘Very good, sir. Any other commands?’
‘No. Stay with the men and send someone to me if I’m needed.’ Jack made to leave.
‘I think I might just about be able to manage that, sir.’ Digby-Brown’s words stopped Jack in his tracks. ‘It’s just the task for a hopeless lieutenant.’
‘What on earth do you mean by that?’ Jack snapped.
‘Well, it’s clear you don’t like me. You treat me like something you’ve just trod in.’
‘I have no idea what you mean.’ Jack could see the emotion in his junior officer’s face and it brought him up short.
‘Truly?’ Digby-Brown’s eyes glistened. ‘You never have a good word to say to me. You treat me like a fool.’
‘I don’t think you are a fool – except when you come up with daft notions like this.’
‘With respect, sir, I disagree. I’ve tried my best to help you. Yet whatever I do, you show me nothing but scorn and derision. It is grossly unfair.’
‘Listen, Digby-Brown. This is the neither the time nor the place for this.’
‘I think it is exactly the time, sir. There may not be another chance to speak plainly.’ The young lieutenant paled at the thought of his own mortality.
‘Well, consider your views aired and noted. Your function in my company is to assist me as I see fit. If that is unsatisfactory to you then I can arrange for you to be assigned elsewhere. For God’s sake, man, we are about to go into battle. This is not the time for a fit of the vapours.’
Digby-Brown’s shoulders slumped and he lowered his head, his spark of righteous anger extinguished by Jack’s damning words.
The sight of the crestfallen officer pricked Jack’s conscience. ‘Look here, Digby-Brown. I need you to help me. Do you understand?’
‘You need me, sir? I thought you couldn’t stand the sight of me.’
‘Grow up, man. Of course I need you. I can’t do everything myself. The men will look to both of us to show them what is expected of them. For better or worse we are their officers and it’s up to us to live up to their expectations.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Digby-Brown’s head lifte
d. ‘I would like to apologise for my outburst.’
‘Now you’re being a damn fool.’ Jack clapped Digby-Brown on the shoulder. He knew he had treated his lieutenant harshly. He had used the young officer as an undeserving scapegoat for all his loathing towards the officer class. He saw now how his treatment had affected Digby-Brown and for that he did feel a pang of remorse. He had not set out to be such a bastard.
‘You have all the makings of a fine officer,’ Jack told him. ‘Never let anyone tell you different. Now,’ he summoned a wry smile, ‘get to your bloody duties before I change my mind.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Digby-Brown glowed with delight, the unexpected praise helping to settle the fear that sat heavily in his stomach. ‘And thank you, sir.’
Jack turned and made his way up the small hillock a few hundred yards in front of the fusiliers’ position. At the top he pulled up handfuls of heather and weeds to make a cushion that would spare his backside direct contact with the damp ground. Then he turned his attention on the panorama that stretched towards the southern horizon.
Directly to the south was a ridge and it was carpeted with thousands upon thousands of Russian infantry. Unlike the allied army, the enemy had yet to form up. Sunlight glinted on the infantry’s neatly piled arms and reflected off the hundreds of pieces of artillery whose iron barrels were aimed down the slope towards the Alma River.
Jack slowly panned along the enemy’s position, Sloames’s precious field glasses bringing the Russian men sharply into focus. He watched intrigued as individual soldiers wandered down to a thick band of vegetation that lined the banks of the river. He picked out one scrawny Russian conscript who meandered down to where a thick clump of bushes would screen him from his fellows. The Russian had not reckoned on being observed from far away to the north and Jack had a clear view as he dropped his thick grey trousers and squatted down on to his haunches.
The Scarlet Thief Page 16
