by Gill Paul
‘I think you will like the artistry of our culture. Are you familiar with Ottoman carpets? Our ceramics?’
Lucy shook her head. ‘The only thing I have heard of is whirling dervishes. Do you have those in your area?’
Murad laughed. ‘Yes, we have whirling dervishes. They are men of the Sufi religion, and their dance is an act of devotion. It is quite spectacular to watch.’
They shared memories of occupations they enjoyed in childhood, and she loved the affectionate way he talked of his four sisters, Safiye, Fatma, Halida and Nakiye. ‘They are educated women,’ he told her, ‘and all are very artistic. They embroider, make rugs and paint pretty miniatures. I miss the sound of their laughter; our house is always full of women’s laughter.’
‘I’d love to meet them,’ Lucy said wistfully.
There was an awkward pause. It was all very well to fantasise, but how could any of this become a reality, given the vast cultural divide between them?
‘I am allowed to marry a non-Muslim woman if I choose,’ Murad said quietly, looking down at his lap.
Lucy’s heart leapt. So he would consider marrying her? But could she live in Turkey, in a society where she must wear a veil and live behind closed doors? When would she see Dorothea and her father, never mind her London friends? She would find it hard in a country where women appeared to have much less freedom than she was used to. She did not want to introduce a note of reality to their conversation, so she cried, ‘I must learn to speak Turkish! Emir started to teach me, but his English was so much better than my Turkish that we lapsed into communicating in English. Will you be my teacher now?’
‘Seni canımdan çok seviyorum,’ he said with passion. ‘That means I love you more than my life.’
Chapter Thirty-five
Murad and Lucy rarely talked about the war. There had been stalemate since the carnage of early June, but on the 17th August, he came to the dacha with news of a Russian attack on the French and Sardinian lines. Lucy hadn’t even known the Sardinians were amongst the allies, as they had only joined the struggle after she left the British camp.
‘The Russians have been soundly defeated,’ he told her, ‘but I must go back to Chernaia to assist with the wounded.’
‘Can I do anything to help?’ she asked.
‘You are so good.’ He kissed her on the lips, stroking her hair. ‘I will let you know.’
It was the only night that whole month they did not spend together and Lucy tossed and turned, unable to sleep until he rejoined her the following evening.
‘It means the end for the Russians and they must know it,’ he told her. ‘The allies have bombarded the city so thoroughly it lies in ruins. They have cut off supply lines so the people are starving. The only thing we have not been able to do is capture their well-defended redoubts. I think the end is very near, my darling.’
They looked at each other in consternation. The end of the war would mean the end of their idyll and they had not made plans for the aftermath. ‘Did you call by the harbourmaster’s office today?’ Lucy asked. It was a month since they had written to her father and Dorothea and she knew that letters to England generally took two weeks to arrive. If they had written back by return, she should have heard by now.
‘Nothing yet. But I am sure we will hear from them any day now.’ His mother had written a very sweet letter sending her blessings for her son’s friendship with an English lady. Murad smiled as he translated. ‘You see? She is a broad-minded woman.’ Lucy imagined her as having a gentle character similar to Murad’s.
September began and the fierce heat of August cooled by a notch; it was still broiling in direct sun but the minute Lucy stepped into the shade the temperature was fresh and comfortable. She was able to return to gardening in the early mornings when Murad left for the Turkish camp – and not a moment too soon, for weeds were threatening to take over.
When they woke on the morning of the 5th September, they heard a low booming sound. Murad ran to the window.
‘It sounds as if there is another offensive. It must be a big one for us to hear it at this distance. I must get to my company.’ He was already pulling on his uniform. ‘Do not worry if I am unable to return this evening. You know I will get here just as soon as I can.’
He kissed her quickly on the lips and as he hurried to the door she called after him: ‘Seni canımdan çok seviyorum.’ He turned and blew a kiss.
Lucy rose and dressed then went out into the garden, walking barefoot on the dew. The sound of shelling was even louder now and she could see a huge cloud in the direction of Sevastopol. Suddenly she realised something was missing; usually at this hour the garden was full of birdsong but now it was quiet, as if even the birds knew it was a momentous day.
Of course Lucy hoped for war’s end so that no more soldiers would lose their lives, but what would happen to her love affair? If only she could persuade Murad to come to London. It would be hard to return to the petty rules governing polite society but maybe they could create their own circle of free-spirited types of people. They would certainly have more freedom than they would in Smyrna. She wanted to live in her home city, even if her father and Dorothea had disowned her. She hoped they had not, but was impatient for a response to her letter. If only she and Murad could marry and he could find work in London, and visit his family in Smyrna once a year. But what work would he do? How would they survive? If her father still had the furniture business, he could have run that. But she knew in her heart that Murad couldn’t be in London. Apart from anything else, he would miss his sisters too much. But Lucy had a sister too. She missed Dorothea, even though she knew her sister would condemn her current lifestyle in the strongest possible terms. There was no perfect solution and it made her anxious to think of the future.
All day long, Lucy kept wandering into the garden, trying to assess what was happening from the level of the sounds of shelling. Had it eased off a little yet, or had the wind simply changed direction? As darkness fell, she had to admit it was as loud as ever and the chances of Murad returning that evening were slim. She ate a small meal then played the pianoforte in an attempt to distract herself from the ache of missing him. In bed she hugged a pillow against her breasts and clamped her legs together until at last she fell asleep.
Next morning as soon as she awoke, she ran to the bedroom window, only to hear the sounds of shelling as fierce as ever. Her spirits sank. The Russians must run out of shells soon. Surely it was not possible to continue at this rate for long? It was horrible to think of all the men being killed and maimed by these explosions, and a tremor of panic gripped her heart in case Murad should be hurt. But he had assured her he would not be sent into battle. His role was to ensure the troops at the front received sustenance, so he worked behind the lines arranging the preparation and transportation of supplies. That’s why he could not return until the fighting was over. Combat troops might have some time off when their company was not directly involved in battle, but Murad was never off duty during an offensive.
Lucy understood all this rationally but still she hoped he would slip away that evening. Even if he rode to the dacha simply to kiss her then had to leave again immediately, she would have been content. But he did not appear on the evening of the 6th, or the 7th, or the 8th. On the morning of the 9th September, Lucy ran to her bedroom window and leaned out; there was silence. The shelling had stopped. She was so delighted she cheered aloud and hugged herself in delight. It had to mean a victory for the allies. Murad had promised her the Russians no longer had a chance of winning. It must mean they had surrendered.
She cautioned herself that Murad might not return that day. He always helped to collect the wounded from the field and see that they were settled in hospital beds. It might take another day or so but she knew he would come just as soon as he could. The 9th passed, and then the 10th and 11th. There had been no more shelling and the sky was a bright clear blue, although the air was definitely cooling. Lucy’s mood plummeted; the only thing
that would cheer her would be Murad’s return. She kept thinking she heard his horse on the track and rushing to the window of the music room, to find nothing except a tree branch blowing in the wind.
As the days went by, a feeling of dread hung heavy on her. If Murad could possibly have returned, he would have done so; she knew that as surely as she knew anything. She remembered that it had taken over three weeks after the battle in June before he could get away but still she felt sick with worry as she waited and watched the hours and minutes tick by on Charlie’s pocket watch. She went through the motions of gardening, cleaning the house, eating, washing, sleeping, but also she spent a lot of time sitting in the garden gazing out to sea, listening for any clue that would help her to understand what had happened.
It was the afternoon of the 16th September when Lucy finally heard a horse’s hooves on the track and knew for sure she was not imagining it. She whirled through the house like one possessed, intent only on rushing into Murad’s arms. When she opened the door she saw a man dismounting from a horse but knew from the shape it was not Murad. He turned and she saw it was Emir.
‘What’s happened? Where is Murad?’ She tried to read his expression.
‘He is hurt. In Sevastopol. He went …’
She interrupted him. ‘How is he hurt? He is not dead, is he?’
‘Dead, no. But he is hurt.’ Emir patted his head.
‘You must take me to him. Now.’
‘He has gone on a ship to hospital.’
‘Which hospital? Where?’
‘To Scutari.’
‘I must go to Scutari then. Will you help me?’
‘Of course.’
She rushed inside to collect her cloak and pull on her petticoats and boots. She had planned to clean and tidy the dacha for its owners before she left, to pull the dust covers back on furniture, but there was no time. She left her pressed flowers and stones, and completely forgot about the pistol. Emir waited outside by his horse and when she emerged minutes later, he lifted her onto its back and mounted behind her.
As they rode towards Balaklava, Emir told her what had happened. On the night of the 8th September the Russians had abandoned Sevastopol and Murad had gone in with an advance party to help the wounded they had left behind. According to what Emir had heard, he entered a building damaged by shelling to help a young boy who was trapped there and a piece of masonry fell on his head. He was taken to Balaklava General Hospital, where it was decided he needed long-term nursing and he had been transferred to a ship bound for Scutari. Emir had been looking for him but could not find out what had happened until that very morning when he had been told by another officer, whereupon he hurried straight away to tell Lucy.
She analysed his words, trying to ascertain how seriously Murad was injured. The main thing was that he was alive. He would recover. He must.
They galloped to the port of Balaklava and Lucy asked Emir to pull up by the harbourmaster’s office. She dashed inside to find the familiar bespectacled man sitting at his desk, talking to two British officers.
Ignoring the officers, she cried, ‘I must get to Scutari on the next boat. It is urgent. Please help me.’
She wasn’t sure if he remembered her as the woman to whom he had given a bag of coal the previous winter but he seemed to appreciate her distress.
‘The Belleisle leaves within the hour,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you a berth on it.’
PART SEVEN
Chapter Thirty-six
Summer 1855
During the hottest months of the year, the mood in the British camp was one of extreme frustration and disillusion. The men continued to fire shells at the Russians then brace themselves for the bone-rattling, ear-shattering explosion as a shell was fired back. They dodged sniper fire while out on patrol and dreaded the next order to advance on the heavily fortified redoubts. It seemed there was no resolution to the war in sight and the horrifying prospect loomed of yet another winter living in tents on that exposed plain. Some soldiers developed nervous complaints as a result of the continual threat of incoming fire combined with the horror of watching their comrades die around them. Dorothea saw men in the General Hospital, staring into the distance, wringing their hands or rocking back and forth; they were unresponsive to the medical staff, who began to call the condition ‘trench madness’. Some of those who suffered from it were able to return to duty after a week of rest, while others seemed as though they might never recover.
Dorothea remained at the Castle Hospital, assisting Mr Crawford in the operating theatre and caring for patients after surgery until they were ready to return to the front line or be shipped home. After the Battle of Chernaia in August, she treated a number of Sardinian casualties. They had recently joined the fray, in their smart pale blue uniforms, and were unused to the deafening noise and random chaos of war, so it hit them hard. There were also two Russians whose legs had been amputated and who lay in neighbouring beds, scared to fall asleep in case anyone should attempt to finish them off. Dorothea treated them with especial kindness. The war was not their fault any more than it was hers.
One day, while attempting to communicate with them she realised they spoke a little French, and asked them, ‘Comment allez vous aujourd’hui?’
‘What will happen to us?’ they wanted to know.
Dorothea hazarded a guess: ‘Once you are well enough you will be held as prisoners. Don’t be alarmed; you will receive good care.’
This did not seem to reassure them and one asked plaintively if he might be allowed to go home. He had a young daughter, just three years of age, whom he hadn’t seen since she was a baby.
‘I hope the war will soon be over and we can all go home,’ Dorothea replied, then asked: ‘Do you have many British prisoners in Sevastopol? I wonder if you have seen an English lady there, young and slender, with blue eyes and blonde hair?’
The Russians looked at each other and shook their heads. ‘There are some prisoners,’ one replied, ‘but we haven’t seen them.’
‘Do you know where they are kept?’
Again they shook their heads. Dorothea thanked them. She supposed it had only been a remote possibility, but not a day went by when she didn’t worry about Lucy.
Over the summer she had entered into a correspondence with Lucy’s friend, Adelaide Cresswell, who had replied to Dorothea’s letter of enquiry, writing that she was much saddened to hear the news about Charlie. She offered to write to the Harvingtons in case Lucy had made peace and gone to live with them. She wrote candidly that both she and her husband Bill had been concerned about Lucy, as she was so young and green, married to a man who was likeable but – between themselves and not wishing to speak ill of the dead – obviously unsteady. She told Dorothea of Lucy’s devoted care while she nursed her husband Bill through cholera in Varna, and of her support when she sat vigil for Bill the night of his death. Dorothea was moved by this; her little sister had obviously grown up. She could hardly bear to think about what poor Lucy must be suffering now.
Towards the end of August, it was clear the allied generals were preparing for another offensive, as trains trundled night and day from Balaklava harbour to the front bearing crates of ammunition and explosives. Mr Crawford grumbled that it looked set to be yet another attack that the Russians knew all about for days in advance. He had as little faith in the new commander General James Simpson as he had had in Lord Raglan. He and Dorothea stockpiled chloroform, boiled silk for sutures, sharpened his knives and bone saw, and prepared themselves as best they could for another wave of injured soldiers. Everyone was on the alert, waiting for the campaign to begin, so it was no surprise when they wakened on the morning of 5th September to feel the ground shaking and to hear a booming noise so loud it was as if the heavens had opened and thunderbolts were shooting down. Soon the smoke cloud was so dense it blotted out the sun. Dorothea hurried up to wait at the Castle Hospital, but all morning no casualties arrived. Word came back that they were shelling Sevastopol first before the
advance into the city would begin, and Dorothea was petrified. What if Lucy was there? It was one thing to shell the redoubts but shelling a town full of civilians seemed morally indefensible. There must be women and children, sick and elderly, all of them starving half to death.
Two days passed, the shelling continued and still the allies did not advance. It was eerie living in that atmosphere of constant noise and choking smoke and the patients were anxious and jumpy. Why did the Russians not surrender? Everyone knew they could never win. The besieging armies were now at full strength and hugely outnumbered the troops defending Sevastopol. All they need do was roll out some white flags and everyone could go home to be reunited with their families.
On the 8th September the charge began. The French army quickly seized the Malakhov while the British breached the Redan and the wounded began to flow back to Castle Hospital in their hundreds. There had been hand-to-hand fighting and many had vicious bayonet slashes through their bellies, an agonising wound from which most bled to death. One man’s nose was shattered and he was struggling to breathe as blood trickled down the back of his throat. Another’s gullet had been cut and he clutched an old rag to the wound trying to stem the bleeding. Everywhere there was blood: Dorothea’s uniform was soaked in it and Mr Crawford’s face was splattered, with dried blood matting his moustache. They worked grimly all day and through the night, as they had done back in June, until all the patients waiting for surgery had been dealt with. It was almost dawn on the 9th when Dorothea noticed that the shelling had stopped entirely, but she could smell burning.
‘What has happened?’ she asked one of the porters, and he promised to enquire and report back.
He returned an hour later when Dorothea and Mr Crawford were on the ward, tending their patients: ‘The Russians have abandoned Sevastopol. They set it on fire and crossed a floating bridge to escape to the north of the harbour. Now the soldiers are on boats back to Russia, but it is said there are hundreds of civilians still trapped in the town.’