Splashing through the ford below them was the first battery of British six-pounders. The brass guns bounced behind their ammunition caissons, six sleek horses towing each one out of the soft ground mounted by busbied, blue-clad riders. The guns strained up the slope to join the cavalry, but not before the Russians got their blow in first. Unseen by the watching infantrymen, Russian guns had moved up to just behind the opposite ridge. Invisible except for their barrels, they had waited until the British guns had presented a target before sending a ripple of shot at them. To warm their bores, each enemy gun started with a solid, round, iron shot that burred and bounded over both cavalry and guns. There would be time enough for more lethal shellfire once the true range had been found.
The first volley fell well short. Earth and clods were thrown up harmlessly whilst the round shot bounced then embedded itself in the boggy ground around the Bulganak. For their second volley the Russians made a bold correction and sent a covey of rounds flying a little too high. Morgan had been watching one gun that, if his telescope wasn’t lying, seemed to be pointing exclusively in their direction. Now it belched smokily, then as its ball grazed the slope below them its report reached their ears. Another spurt of earth in front, then the lump of iron hummed over the group to bound playfully away.
‘Jesus, that was close!’ All four had heard the lofty sound, but only one seemed to be alarmed. Flinching almost double and quite white in the face, Carmichael appeared to have noticed a danger that none of the others had.
‘Drop summat, sir?’ An urchin voice rose from the sprawled line of soldiers behind the officers as another ball sang far overhead. There were sniggers.
‘Who said that?’ Carmichael whirled to confront his accuser but saw nothing but ranks of whiskery, grinning faces.
‘Leave it, Carmichael...’ Eddington knew that the senior of his two subalterns had lost the moral battle with the troops, the very men whom he would have to lead into action, ‘...look yonder at our guns.’
Three of the six-pounders were now wheeling hard against the slope whilst the nearby cavalry did their best to cover them with carbine fire. This was one of the most difficult manoeuvres possible for horse artillery as they would present a vulnerable flank and tail to the enemy guns as they brought their own pieces into action. Turf flying, all three teams turned away from the enemy to bring their guns into line with his. Before the horses had been brought to a skidding halt the men were off their seats or saddles, running hard to unlimber the gun, to get staves, rammers and sponges off its carriage and to sprint ammunition up to their brassy master. The commands of the gunner officers and NCOs could just be heard on the breeze as the whole performance unfolded mechanically before them.
Morgan focused carefully on the ammunition party. A bombardier threw open the lid of the wheeled ammunition caisson then rapidly handed shot to the two waiting gunners—’gun-numbers’ as he’d been taught to call them—who raced forward, black, glistening balls held in that odd, folded-arm way. Like ants, the men went through their drills. The guns were sponged, primed, rammed and loaded just as the Russians fired again. Rounds bounced and furrowed past the British guns doing nothing more than showering the little blue figures with grit until one lucky shot bowled into the 11th Hussars.
‘First blood to the Muscovites, then.’ Eddington had just caught the chaos in a mounted troop at the edge of his glass. He pointed and the others swung to look more closely. A Russian ball had swept through the ranks passing mainly between the horses’ legs but catching some mounts and their riders—it was hard to say exactly how many at that distance—and tumbling them into a mass of limbs and saddlery. Cherry-red overalls flashed in the tangle, the wearers horribly limp. Then the British guns replied. Three fired almost as one—there was a relieved cheer from the 95th and chirpier individuals called for odds on which side would get the better of things. More bangs and smoke from the Russians and more furrowed earth, but this time without any hurt. The balls rattled past the gun crews unnoticed as they sweated with staves and rammers to get a better rate of fire than their opponents—then the order was given to fire shell. With only a couple of ranging shots, the British switched from solid shot to explosive rounds, the ridgeline being suddenly garlanded with black, smoky smudges cracking angrily just above the heads of the Russians.
‘That’ll sort the sods out, sir!’ McGucken spoke for them all. But just as the British seemed to get the upper hand, bugles blared, the cavalry mounted and as quickly as the guns had come into action they were being limbered-up and moved to the rear.
‘What on earth are the cavalry up to now? Can’t they see that they got Russ on the back foot—Lord-bloody-Lucan needs a bit more ginger!’
A group of mounted Staff officers were directing the battle. Mostly in blue with cocked hats, one figure stood out in fur busby and pelisse, Lord Cardigan, commander of the Light Cavalry Brigade. His animus towards his brother-in-law and divisional commander, Lord Lucan, was infamous, even here amongst the infantry, and Morgan fancied that he could see both noblemen straining with dislike for each other.
‘I suspect he’d ginger you if he heard that, Carmichael.’ Eddington spoke quietly but with an edge. ‘I have no doubt that he has his reasons to withdraw the cavalry and guns. I expect it’s just a screen force that he’s discovered, not the main body. It’ll take more than a few donkey-guns to dislodge a well-defended position—and Lord knows, they’ve had the time and we’ve shown them exactly what our intentions are. No, it’ll be up to that bunch behind us.’
Eddington cast a wary eye over the mass of beefy, scruffy boys loafing behind him. They sat or kneeled now, belts undone, shakoes cast off, their muddy trouser bottoms rolled up to just above the ankle. The white-laced scarlet coatees were beginning to fade whilst their leather equipment hadn’t seen pipe-clay for an age. Sunburnt, stubbly faces either grinned back at the company commander or were instantly asleep, cushioned on their blanket packs.
‘Aye, sir, and they’ll do just fine.’ McGucken said this not as an opinion, but as a simple fact.
***
As they were soon to learn, the price of a little excitement was a lot of boredom. It took for ever for the army to sort itself out after what instantly came to be known as ‘The Cavalry Affair’ and whilst the Light Brigade aligned, re-aligned and then eventually trotted off over the near horizon, the 95th just hung about. No orders were given to relax, so no cooking fires were lit nor could equipment be fully taken off, for everyone felt that an order to dash to support of the hussars would come at any moment.
Meanwhile waiting wooden-wheeled, squeaky pony carts brought the Light Cavalry Brigade’s casualties back through the ford. A prurient curiosity drew Morgan and Carmichael like a magnet—real war meant real blood and real death and they must see it for themselves. Pegg trailed after them, as morbidly interested as his officers.
The carts were driven by medical orderlies of the 11th. Both of them were pointedly sombre—they were still wearing their blood-spattered white aprons and cuff covers like battle honours. In the back of the first cart sat a Sergeant, bareheaded but chewing at a pipe. Over the back of the little cart dangled one good cherry-clad leg whilst his hands clasped the remains of his other. Where his foot had been there was now a swathe of crimson bandages, whilst the bottom of his overall dripped a darker red.
‘Well done, Sar’nt, you got the better of that lot on the ridge,’ Morgan lied bravely. Two glassy eyes slowly swivelled towards the subalterns, smoke idling from his nostrils as his pipe stuck out from below a scrappy, gingery moustache. That was all the answer they got.
Morgan had seen plenty of corpses in his life—the famine of forty-eight had killed half Skibbereen—but never one that had died violently. In the back of the second cart was a young, mousey hussar lying on his belly, his face turned to one side. His right shoulder was a mess of blood and butchered tissue, a roundshot had smashed the arm bones which now stuck out like something from Hector’s bowl. The spurs at his heels j
oggled gently to the rhythm of the cart, but it was his open eyes that held the young officer. As the cart moved so his eyelashes trembled—it was as if the boy were listening intently, quite awake, one ear pressed to the boards of the cart. Black blood had dried around his nostrils.
The three of them silently watched the sad cavalcade.
***
Eddington was right, of course. But that was why he was a captain, Morgan mused as they settled down again to sleep in the open. Just like the other nights, the boys had stood to, stood down, cleaned their weapons, cooked then wrapped themselves in their blankets—but tonight was different. Across the next river—the Alma—on the slopes that lined the far side twinkled myriad fires. There hadn’t been quite enough light to see the Russian trenches and earthworks when they had marched into their night-time positions, but now the whole landscape seemed to be covered in little pin-pricks of light, the firmament of a mighty army. The soldiers were excited, chattering, cleaning their rifles, checking their ammunition with unusual zeal.
The padre and the volunteer priest wandered amongst them but instead of the usual affable banter from the men, there were odd, earnest little conversations. Here the padre helped boys from the slums to read passages from letters, there the priest mumbled, head-to-head with a couple of lads from the bogs who toyed with their rosaries.
The officers, as usual, had gathered around their own fire. They had learnt to waste no time before getting into their blankets—an exhausted sleep now came easily between watches—but tonight they had visitors. A trio of subalterns from the other companies were prowling about, seeking out friends, measuring others’ nervousness against their own. Morgan joined the group just as Boothby was expanding on the desirability or otherwise of losing a limb in battle.
‘It would be a damned nuisance, for sure, but it’d be bound to get you noticed by the filles wouldn’t it?’
‘No bloody use having a bunch of lovelies hovering around if you’ve had your eyes put out, though, is it?’ burly McDonald from the Light Company objected.
‘All right, I accept that, but a missing limb gives you a certain je ne sais quoi, don’t it?’ Boothby plugged on.
‘You’d be pretty unhappy if your je ne sais quoi had been shot off, wouldn’t you though?’ Carmichael added.
Morgan immediately thought of today’s crippled hussar and the veterans he’d seen in Fermoy and Dublin—now just husks and as likely to catch the eye of one of Boothby’s filles as he was to kiss the Pope.
‘No, but really, if you had to lose a limb which one would you prefer?’ Boothby directed this at Eddington.
‘I’ve never heard such damn nonsense in my life, but if something has to go you’d better hope it’s one of my legs, that’s the only thing that would stop me kicking your arse all the way back to your own company. Now cut along and get some sleep.’
FIVE
Alma to Balaklava
‘Christ, Colour-Sar’nt, the Regiment’s taken a beating, ain’t it?’ Morgan looked at the headless body of his former company commander, Eddington, that was being carried by two soldiers from the Grenadier Company, one holding him below the knees, the other below the shoulders. As the lifeless, waxy white hands swung in time to the men’s pace, so the soldier at the rear tried to keep the sticky gore from the dead officer’s shattered neck from staining his uniform.
Morgan stared as the corpse passed. Could it only be last night that Eddington had sent the subalterns packing when they were discussing the glamour of being wounded in battle—although none of them had reflected on the merits of a bloody death? And was it only a few hours ago that the same man had led his troops with a dash, an élan that he doubted he would ever have, Morgan wondered?
‘Aye, sir, the adjutant’s kilt as well, sir; half the subbies are cold meat, the commanding officer’ll lose a leg, the Sergeants’ Mess is eight good men down and as many wounded, an’ over two hundred of the boys are dead or wounded an’ we’re still counting.’ Even McGucken seemed stunned by the loss of so many of his officers and comrades. ‘Bastard of a way to win our first battle, ain’t it, sir?’
‘That’s what Wellington said wasn’t it, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Morgan surveyed the scattered parties of men carrying the dead and wounded. ‘‘The only thing worse than a battle won, is a battle lost’ or something like that.’
‘Aye, sir, something like that,’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken answered distractedly.
With Carmichael—now the acting company commander—nowhere to be seen, McGucken had organized the burial parties on his own initiative. He gathered the sergeants and corporal who were still standing around him and detailed them off to find their own dead and do their best for the wounded. For most, it was a long haul as the casualties stretched right back over the river and far into the vines on the north side. Little groups of men toiled with the bodies—if they had some vestige of life in them they could be left at the surgeons’ tents down by the river but the stiff, cold corpses had to be carried up the hill to the Russian trenches in the Great Redoubt that were now being used as mass graves.
At first great care had been taken to identify, remove and then bundle up the casualties’ effects, but this soon faltered in the face of sheer weight of numbers and leaden fatigue. As soon as a man was clearly recognized he was pushed in with his regimental comrades—boots, clothes, belts and all—regardless of the instructions to return everything useful to the quartermaster. No sooner had the last spade of soil been heaped on the shallow pits than the men sank down, almost too exhausted to eat.
‘They reckon half the regiment’s gone, Frank. Did you see your Pete?’ Pegg, haversack now full to bursting with his spoils, had sought out Francis Luff, the brother of his dead friend. To ease Luff’s grief, Pegg had busied himself about a fire, stripping musket barrels from their stocks to create an iron grid above the flames. His tin kettle was just beginning to boil as dusk turned to night and the flames painted their faces.
‘Aye, don’t s’pose he knew much about it. Got his prayer book and a few letters for Mam, but they’re all covered in his blood, can’t send them home like that can I?’ Frank gathered his greatcoat about him, took his pipe from his mouth, spat half-heartedly and pushed at the burning wood with his boot.
‘No. Did you take a bit of his hair for her?’
‘Didn’t think, an’ it’s too late now, I saw him being covered over,’ Frank muttered miserably.
‘Come ‘ere, give her this.’ Pegg sawed an inch or two of greasy hair from Frank’s head before tying it with a bit of string and a tiny Russian icon from his haversack. ‘She’ll never know it’s yours an’ it’ll mean worlds to her.’ A stumpy pencil and a scrap of paper were produced and Pegg worked away at a note before wrapping the little bundle up and passing it to Frank. In the light of the flames he could just make out the laborious, printed words. ‘From the head of Private Peter Luff, Grenadiers, 95th Regiment, 20 Sep 54. He fell in the great victory at the River Alma’. Frank tucked the token away in a deep pocket—when the post arrived in Hayling Island it would tear a mother’s heart.
***
The hills behind the Alma rolled even more gently in the long march down towards Sevastopol. Where before the going had been dull and unobstructed, now forests and thorny woods sprang up that wasted not just time and energy but caused the troops to curse most horribly, almost poetic in their profanity. The plodding infantry saw the occasional horseman go tearing by, directing them, it was universally assumed, up the wrong track or through the wrong ford out of sheer badness. Whether it was the utter monotony of the march or the heaviness of heart that hung over the men after the battle was hard to say. They all knew that life could never be as carefree again.
‘I never thought I’d call a bit of scabby hillside home, Sar’nt Ormond.’
Morgan had thrown himself down next to Ormond who had taken off his belts and pack, scrabbled around in his haversack and was pruning a toenail with a pen knife. All around them the footsore, grubby troops
were lighting fires, taking long pulls from their water bottles or just sitting vacantly, hardly believing that this was to be their camp. They’d had no change of clothes since they left the ships fifteen days ago and had spent no more than two nights in any one place. Now they refused to believe that the last week and a half of constant movement and marching since the battle at the Alma had come to an end.
‘Aye, sir, the last few days have been a bit ‘ectic, ‘aven’t they?’ Brows knitted, Ormond dug away at his foot. ‘I thought we’d get a bit of rest when the Rifles took Balaklava couple of days back, but we’ve been buggered around from pillar to post ever since, ain’t we, sir?’
After the long march down and around to the south of Sevastopol, both the British and French had tried to use Balaklava as their main port once it had fallen, but it had proved too small. So, the French had pushed further along the coast whilst the British sorted out not just their camps and gun positions, but also the exposed and vulnerable route from Balaklava up to the siege lines on the Sapoune—the great horseshoe-shaped ridge that dominated Sevastopol.
‘What do they call this place, anyway, sir? I can’t read a blind bit of their funny writing.’ Ormond wriggled his toes, cleaned scraps of grey, doughy, dead skin from between them with a stubby finger and turned to look at Morgan.
‘Well, the colonel says the Staff insist on calling it ‘Inkermann’, because that’s what that village down there...’ Morgan pointed into the valley at a thatched and shingled hamlet just on the other side of the bridge that spanned the River Tchernaya, ‘...is known as, apparently. You know the army, Sar’nt Ormond, they’ll take the damndest little spot on a map and make it something it isn’t—look at Fermoy.’
To Do and Die Page 10