Mary Seacole, the Scots-West Indian woman who had done much nursing in the Crimea, was now running a small shop called The British Hotel, and could not come to nurse one man. Mrs Rogers might have come, except that she was up on the front line, tending to the wounded there. After a few enquiries, Devlin did find someone, and returned to the house.
Crossman was laying back on his bed of straw. He had been given a drink and some soup and was now feeling much less like dying. When Devlin came to him he was able to show some interest in his potential carer.
‘Who have you found?’ asked Crossman in a weak tone.
‘Why, Sergeant, one of the wives. She asked to be the one to come to you. She seemed distressed by your condition. So much so, I might have thought she had some personal interest in you, Sergeant, if I did not think such assumptions improper.’
Hope sprang eternal to Crossman’s breast.
‘Is it – is it Mrs O’Clarey, the corporal flute-player’s wife? She who used to be Mrs McLoughlin? Is it she who is anxious about my condition?’
Devlin looked mystified. ‘Why no – ’twas a lady.’
Crossman half sat up in bed in alarm.
‘A lady? You don’t mean Mrs Durham?’
At that moment the female in question appeared in the doorway and removed her hat, taking out the pins and sticking them back in the crown so that she would know where to find them.
‘You see,’ she said, ‘I told you so, Corporal. He wanted no other but myself to minister to him in his illness.’ She then turned to Crossman and looked genuinely distressed. ‘Oh, Alexander, how pale you look – how thin! Are you so bad, my dear? You look close to death. I must build you up again.’
Corporal Devlin’s eyes were almost popping out of his head at this speech.
Crossman said, ‘You – you have me confused with another.’
Her face registered mock surprise. ‘Of course I do. I did not mean Alexander at all, I meant Sergeant Crossman. And I did not mean, my dear in that sense. I mean, my dear sir. Now,’ she leaned down and began to tuck in the blanket so that he was bound like a swaddling child, ‘we must minister.’
‘Devlin,’ cried Crossman in panic, ‘get this lady out of here – get her out, I say.’
Lavinia Durham raised her eyebrows. ‘Corporal, you will do no such thing, or my husband, who is a captain, will have you flogged for insubordination. Leave us now.’
Devlin stared agog at his sergeant, then once more at Mrs Durham, then left the room.
Lavinia found the rickety chair that was the only other piece of furniture in the room. She sat on it, commenting that she would have to get a table, a jug and a glass, and some other things for the room, if she were to stay there until he got well.
‘Don’t you have some battle to gawk at?’ moaned Crossman.
‘Don’t be uncharitable, Alex. You know perfectly well that a siege is not as exciting as a proper battle, with hussars riding by in glorious colour, and French Zouaves, and Bashi-Bazouks. I dislike artillery exchanges where there is no movement going on – no exciting charges by the cavalry, or infantry rushing up hills – and so prefer to be here with you. If there is blood to be seen, it is in this room.’
‘What about your husband, Lavinia? He’ll be monstrously angry when he hears you’re tending to my every need. Think of your husband, my dear.’
‘Now, there, you are calling me my dear again. I can do it to you, because I was the one who was jilted, but you must not do it to me – it is most improper, Alex. It robs me of all my dignity as an abandoned woman. How can I be strong and forgiving if you insist on being so familiar?’
Crossman groaned.
‘You left me without a word of explanation,’ continued the lady, matter-of-factly. ‘We had an understanding, too, I’m sure you’ll grant me that. You called me a nonpareil at one time, if you remember, and compared me to a summer’s day.’
‘All I did was read you a Shakespeare sonnet.’
‘In some circles that is enough to justify ordering the wedding gown, my dear. Still, maybe I had a lucky escape, for your behaviour is quite strange – even a little mad. You come from a long line of officers, yet here you are hiding in the ranks. I could never have married a man who had so little regard for his lineage. How would it be if I were the wife of a sergeant? And perhaps,’ she gave a little shudder, ‘had we married you might still have thought of enlisting in the ranks, to prove some point of honour, or for a wager, or whatever the reason is for your being in that horribly rough uniform.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘My dear, it would be too ghastly for words, now wouldn’t it? Can you see me socializing with the likes of a Mrs Private Baggins or a Mrs Corporal Boggins? No, Alexander, it would not do. It would simply not do. You must see that I had no choice but to marry a Bertie of some description after you left me. And though Bertie’s family might be in trade, they are respectable. Bertie and I understand each other. I have his money and the status and freedom an unmarried woman would never be allowed. In return, he doesn’t need to be loved. He needs a beautiful, well-bred wife to show the world.’
‘And you are beautiful?’
‘Of course I am – you’ve told me so yourself. No cause for false modesty. I have the body of a Greek goddess and the mind of a Tudor queen. Loveliness and cunning. It’s a fascinating combination, Alexander, and it keeps me in male company. Men like an enchantress, a femme fatale.’
Crossman gave up. He could never fence words with Lavinia Durham. She always had the better of him, like a swordsman who is at the top of his skill and knows he cannot be beaten. Her confidence overwhelmed him. He wondered what her husband would say when he knew that she was nursing a sick sergeant in the Connaught Rangers. He would have an apoplexy.
Later, while she was working with her needle in the lamp light, she said in a quiet tone, ‘You actually had a lucky escape, Alexander.’
He knew that she meant she was hell to live with – a wilful woman, a hoyden in her maidenhood and not much better now, though she could get away with more being a married lady – and that he would have lamented a betrothal to her.
‘This way,’ she added, biting the thread to part it, then turning the full force of her hazel eyes on his, ‘your autumn years will not be full of regret.’
What an extraordinary woman she was, he thought, more perceptive than he had previously given her credit for.
Major Lovelace looked in later that night to see how Crossman was getting along.
‘Congratulations, Sergeant, on your fox hunt. I hear you did rather well in the end.’
‘Wynter did, and Ali. I was rather out of it, sir. All I managed to do was get myself in this state.’
Lovelace shook his head. ‘You were the commander in the field. If it had gone disastrously wrong, you would have taken the blame, whether it was your fault personally or not. In which case you should not balk at taking credit for a mission which helped the allied cause. It was a small setback for the Russians, I’ll grant you, but we had other things going on at the time. Each small effort amounts to a greater whole.’
‘I would be grateful if you would thank Ali and Wynter for their part.’
‘I shall do so, Sergeant.’
Mrs Durham, sitting doing some embroidery in the lamp light by the table she had had delivered, looked up and spoke.
‘Listen to these two men, speaking to one another as if they come from a different class. You both know you are from the same station. Probably Sergeant Crossman would outrank you, in civilian life, Major Lovelace. Does that not seem strange to you?’
‘Ma’am,’ replied Lovelace, ‘everything seems strange to me at the moment, especially your presence in this room. However, I want the sergeant to recover and I know that the best person to help him do that is a caring female. My men are so heavy-handed they would probably kill him inadvertently in his delicate condition. But I must confess, I wonder at the propriety of this arrangement. I hope I do not have some irate captain
hammering on my door demanding satisfaction.’
‘If you mean my husband, sir, his satisfaction comes from other things. He is happy to have a wife who is a lady and who will call him husband and give him some status in life. Captain Durham is not from a very good family, sir. His father was in trade. This might mean little to you or I, but it means a lot to Captain Durham, who feels he has the smirch of coal dust on his brow and is continually anxious that it remains hidden under his wife’s lace and velvet.’
Lovelace frowned. ‘I feel sorry for the man, if he is that anxious to join with aristocratic society. I have a sergeant here who is just as eager to rid himself of it.’
Mrs Durham smiled politely. ‘Well, there you have two different opinions, one from either end of the scale. Each man has what the other desires. I once knew a man who loved mountain climbing, but confessed that whenever he was up on some high peak he desired to be at home by his fire, with his dog, his wife and his slippers. Yet, when he was thus, he wished to be up a mountain again, in the blizzards and snowy wastes.’
Lovelace could not but help admire this woman, whose intellect was more than moderate.
‘To what would you ascribe these changing moods, ma’am, in this mountain climber friend?’
She looked up from her embroidery and smiled.
‘Why, sir, to the fickleness of man! What else? You are never satisfied. Name me something you wish for, but have not yet got.’
‘I want us to win this war, by God,’ said Lovelace, determinedly.
‘But having won it would not be enough. You would then want to win another. It is as I say, there is no satisfaction to be had in you men. With women it is different. We are satisfied even to take second best, if that is all that is available. Ask Sergeant Crossman if this is not so.’
Crossman gave Lovelace a bleak look, which told the major everything he wanted to know.
‘I’ll look in on you again soon,’ said the major, leaving his side. ‘You’re in good hands.’
12
Private Feltam did not leave the hovel straight away, but stayed to talk with Peterson, Clancy and Devlin in the downstairs room. He took off his tall czapka from his head and placed it carefully on a stool by the door. The infantry soldiers were fascinated by the skull and crossbones badge with the words ‘Or Glory’ underneath. There were lions’ heads fittings in brass to hold the chin-chains on either side. All in all, it was a most intriguingly designed piece of headgear.
Peterson made him some broth, envying him his uniform, while at the instigation of the others the trooper talked of his experiences in the war so far.
‘We haven’t seen much action in the Crimea,’ he confessed. ‘We’ve chased a few Cossacks and we’ve been chased by ’em, down and up at different places. I really wish we could have a go. I really do. I’d like to think of us having a go.’
Peterson felt sorry for the lancer, who seemed genuinely distressed that the cavalry were not pulling their weight on the Crimean peninsula.
‘You had a bit of a go at Varna though,’ she said. ‘I heard something about it.’
Feltam shook his head gloomily. ‘Not as such. You mean the “sore-back reconnaissance”, don’t you? Lord Cardigan rode us up to the River Danube and back. Over two hundred miles looking for Russians, but they’d already gone. We had to shoot five of the horses which dropped from fatigue on the trail. One of them was mine. I finished the journey in a cart. The other mounts – well, over seventy horses – were unfit for duty after the ride. Some of ’em died later. A lucky one stumbled just as we come into Varna and it had to be shot there and then – right in front of that lady upstairs with the sergeant.’
‘Lucky, you say?’ queried Devlin.
‘Well, we was only allowed to shoot horses with glanders or broken legs. The poor beast would have died anyway, from its labours. Breaking its shin-bone like that, we was able to put it out of its misery, see. Mrs Durham, she started to cause a fuss over the horses, but Lord Cardigan gave her one of his looks and she soon quietened down.’
Feltam took another sip of his broth to wet his throat.
Clancy said, ‘But you did have a go at the Russians near MacKenzie’s Farm, I remember – when we were on the flank march down to this here Balaclava?’
Feltam’s face lit up a little. ‘Oh, you mean when we went after ’em but then Lord Raglan called us back? If he hadn’t took us off them, we’d have been in a fight all right. We chased ’em away, good enough. There’s proof of it in the supply wagons we captured.’
Feltam leaned forward conspiratorially and the heads of the others went down to meet his.
‘You should have seen some of the booty we took from them wagons,’ he said in a whisper. ‘Not the sort of thing you could take to church on Sunday.’ He nodded and winked.
If the others were intrigued, Peterson was on the edge of her seat with curiosity.
‘What sort of things, trooper?’ she asked. ‘Tell us.’
‘Well, there was some wigs of hair, some brandy and lots of women’s underclothes.’ He chuckled. ‘We changed the frillies for the pennons on our lances, just as a joke you understand, and waved ’em around a bit. Till Lord Cardigan caused a bother and told us to take ’em off.’
The other two men present laughed uproariously.
‘What a lark,’ said Clancy. ‘Fancy using a lady’s petticoats for a flag!’
Peterson said with a scowl, ‘I don’t see what’s so funny about that.’
Devlin looked at her in surprise and she turned away and stared at the wall for a moment.
‘Is that all of it?’ asked Clancy. ‘Just the women’s undergarments ?’
‘Not at all,’ smirked Feltam. ‘There was these books in French, with pictures. The pictures,’ he paused dramatically, to take a quick sip of broth, ‘was of naked women.’
Clancy looked as if his skin were tingling. ‘Naked women? With no clothes on?’
Feltam nodded. ‘You could see everything. And men were doing things with them. You know. We laughed to see them pictures. Some of the officers knew how to read French. When we was camped by the river, they read some out to each other, with us listening. You wouldn’t like to repeat them stories to your parish priest. I don’t mind telling you I went all hot. You should have heard the one about the butler who hid in a bedroom cupboard and watched the master and one of his chambermaids frolic on the settee.’
‘I should like to read that one,’ said Clancy, eagerly. ‘I could get someone to work out the French. Have you got one of those books on you?
‘No, they was took from us by the officers. One or two of the troopers tore out a picture, but I didn’t get anything. I can look at one when I want to. I just ask.’
‘I should like to see one,’ said Clancy, wistfully.
Peterson snorted. ‘I don’t see what you want to look at rude pictures for, Private Clancy – or read rude stories. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’
‘Well I’m not, so there,’ replied Clancy, with some fire. ‘I would wish to see them and that’s that.’
Thereafter, Peterson refused to look at Clancy, and if he looked her way she scowled at the wall.
When the twilight came, Private Feltam said he ought to be getting back to where the lancers were camped. His horse was getting restless outside, whinnying and scraping the ground with its right foreleg. He put on his magnificent czapka and bid them farewell, before mounting and riding off away from Kadikoi, up towards the Light Brigade camp near a vineyard about a mile north of the village.
The darkness crept in over the shadowed hills, purpling the road before the trooper’s horse. Though it was October there were still many birds to be seen, especially hawks hovering over the short grasses of the valley. A fox, burnished bronze, ran across Feltam’s path, chasing unseen prey. A little while later a primrose moon came up, casting its pale light.
Feltam did not appreciate the beauty of the evening though. He was in a troubled frame of mind after speaking with
those infantry fellows. Normally he felt quite superior to foot soldiers. He was one of the élite. Cavalry. And Light Brigade, at that. Dashing heroes, the Light Brigade. They were dressed in splendid attire, which flashed in the sun. Ladies swooned at the sight of them.
Yet he could not help but think those 88th Foot, those Connaught Rangers back there, had seen more glory than he had so far. And they themselves admitted they fought in a square at the Alma, and were not up in the thick of it. Yet they were quietly haughty. They had not said anything, had not bragged about being in action, yet there was a confidence in them which Private Feltam felt was decidedly superior to his own.
‘It’s a damned shame,’ he kept saying to himself. ‘They ought to use the cavalry. They ought to have used us at the Alma. They ought to have let us charge into Sebastopol. They ought to let us have a go. We are the boys for that. We just need our chance.’
And as he was thus engaged with himself, in deep thought punctuated with some conversation, Private Feltam’s chance came to him out of the hills.
He could not believe his eyes. There were four figures coming down a gentle escarpment, heading for Kadikoi in the quickening darkness. One of them looked like a scarecrow on a nag, with his ragged civilian clothes. He seemed to be leading the others, who were definitely Don Cossacks.
Where were they going so late in the evening, deep inside territory where they might easily meet up with British troops? They seemed to have their eyes fixed on Kadikoi, where Feltam had left the sick sergeant. What would they be wanting to do in Kadikoi village, full of men who were their enemies?
Suddenly one of the three Cossacks saw Feltam and spoke to his compatriots. They reined their mounts and sat staring at him in the gloaming.
Private Feltam was at first at a loss as to what to do. He might have called for assistance, had it been likely there was anyone within earshot. But looking round he saw he was a long way from Kadikoi, whose one or two lamp lights he could see twinkling in the distance, and certainly nowhere near the Heavy or Light Brigade camps. He was on his own.
The Valley of Death Page 14