‘No, sir, you look at Fermoy if you like, I thought it was a pox-ridden dump. Anyway, d’you reckon this is it, or will we be moving again?’
For the last week Brigadier-General Pennefather’s Brigade, to which the 30th, 55th and 95th belonged, had been told to wait first here and then there all over the eastern part of the Sapoune. Before the siege could start, however, the infantry had to be arranged to the Staff’s satisfaction.
‘Well, the Pope’s a pig if I’m wrong, but the Thirtieth and the Fifty-Fifth are starting to lay out their tent lines yonder and the gunners have laid claim to those huts.’
Morgan looked across the scrub-covered saddle that was bisected by a packed-dirt road as the other two regiments settled into camp routine. The Division’s artillery, meanwhile, were rapidly digging and scraping drains for their stables around a clutch of buildings.
‘The gunners can have the bloody things for all I care, sir. Let’s just get the tents up and let the lads get some rest.’ Ormond said what was on everyone’s mind.
‘I hope you’re right, Sar’nt Ormond, but I guess we’ll be busy soon enough.’ Morgan nodded through the scrub towards Balaklava. ‘You see, every damn bit of kit we use, every morsel we eat, every shot the gunners fire will have to come up from Balaklava and the route will have to be guarded. You remember when the cavalry bumped in the Russians a few days ago when we were just outside Sevastopol?’ Morgan paused to see whether Ormond was still with him and got a tired nod in reply. ‘Well, the newspapers say...’ Morgan had eagerly devoured the latest copy of The Times that one of the other subalterns had produced in last night’s bivouac, ‘...that General Menschikoff has now got thousands of troops ranging across the interior of the Crimea and they can be re-supplied from Russia proper whilst there’s not a damn thing we can do about it. Those troops are now free to operate against Balaklava and against us here. We’ll have to do all the digging and bag-filling for the siege work—as the infantry always have to do—but we’ll also have to protect the whole of the Allied flank; you see, the hard graft hasn’t even started yet.’
As Morgan finished his gloomy speech, two men arrived from battalion headquarters to guide the company to their camp site.
‘Right, on yer feet you idle lot, there’s the whole of the Allied flank to protect so let’s be havin’ you.’ Ormond gently mocked his officer. Wearily, the troops rose and buckled on their kit before tramping off through the brushwood.
***
‘Well, I suppose it means that we’ll be in reserve next time.’ Morgan looked at the mass of officers of the other two regiments of the Brigade, the 30th and the 55th. Compared with the remains of the 95th, they seemed to be plentiful.
‘Aye, it’ll be their turn to lead the next attack.’ Carmichael, now acting as the Grenadier’s company commander, echoed the thoughts of all the 95th’s officers who had survived the Alma.
The whole of Pennefather’s Brigade was shocked by the number of officers and men that the 95th had lost, for on parade they looked like a couple of strong companies rather than a whole battalion. The other two regiments seemed to have got away lightly, now the Brigade commander, Pennefather, assembled them to reconnoitre the approaches to Sevastopol. The infantry were to be put to work constructing parallels and trenches whilst the guns would batter any defences of the soon-to-be besieged city.
‘Gentlemen, we’re going to have look at a bit of ground that you’ll get very familiar with over the next few weeks. The guns will knock away at Sevastopol, but we’ll have to take the place and the sooner we can do that—and it’s got to be before winter—the better. There’ll be a whore of a lot of digging to do an’ everyone will say the Staff don’t know their arse from their elbow, but I can assure you that a steady advance with trenches and parallels is the only way to do it. Now, it’s Shanks’s Pony from here on.’ Pennefather, light, wiry, grey-haired, whose triumphs in India were never far from his lips, had yet to make an impression on the 95th. He’d been far away from them at the Alma and whilst almost every man had been able to hear his oaths and curses as the battle started, they’d soon been parted in the smoke. Now he told the senior officers to dismount for the Russians would be on the lookout for such parties.
‘The Brigade will be responsible for a series of parallels on what’s being called the ‘Right Attack’. Over to the left the other divisions will be constructing the ‘Left Attack’ and beyond them, stretching right round the city, the Frogs will be carrying out similar operations. First, I’m going to show you where the gunners are starting their batteries, for we shall have to fit in with their misbegotten plans.’
Carmichael was foremost in the polite laughter as the brigadier damned—as infantrymen always do—the artillery.
The thirty or so officers, no two of them now dressed alike except for their stained red coats, crept up the rocky fissures on the lip of the great Careening Ravine that led right down into the heart of the city and the bay that was cleverly adapted to allow Russian warships to have their keels cleaned there. The ravine itself was deep and sinuous, its sides rocky and steep and it served as a perfect, natural delineation between the Left and Right Attacks. The autumn sun still shone intently and as they stalked forward the band of Morgan’s cap and the too-long hair at the nape of his neck became very wet. He longed to pull at his water-bottle.
The officers stumbled around the steep hillsides for a good half-hour before there was an unexpected, muted challenge. A sentry from the most advanced artillery battery was covering the path that led to his position, whilst all around gunners dug and filled basketwork gabions and sandbags, sweating into their grey woollen shirts, leather braces swinging freely around their knees. Now the man looked down the barrel of his carbine at the gaggle of officers.
‘Sorry, sirs, no one told us you was a-coming. You’ll be wanting the major, he’s up there.’ The grimy gunner returned his carbine to the crook of his arm, tapped its sling in salute and pointed in the general direction of his officer with a flick of his new-grown beard. As they passed, Morgan noticed how the young soldier scratched at the crack of his bottom: so it wasn’t just the infantry whom the lice favoured.
The gunner major was busy, too busy to be impressed by a mere brigadier-general and a gang of infantrymen. With great science his battery was taking shape and he made it clear that there would be little need for inching cautiously forward with trenches and earthworks. He spread out his chart on a low sandbag wall.
‘Now, sir, gentlemen, you can’t quite see the town from here, but our guns will be able to once the battery is complete. Just over that rise...’ he pointed to a near horizon no more than a hundred paces away, ‘...is Sevastopol. It’s practically undefended right now, and if we get a move on I have no doubt that we could be in the place in a month at the very most.’ Instantly aware that he’d over-reached himself in the presence of a general-officer, the Gunner quickly backpedalled. ‘At least, that’s our view, but I have no doubt that you’re full aware of the situation, sir?’
‘Aye, well, Lord Raglan will have a view as well, Major—forgive me, I didn’t catch your name—perhaps we ought to listen to him.’ The mention of the commander-in-chief had the desired effect and the gunner shut up. ‘Now, gentlemen, follow me but beware of the Muscovites’ marksmanship. I almost lost a goddamn aide here day before last.’
They snaked up the low rise, fumbling at telescopes and compasses. Carefully the group of officers walked forward until they had a good view of the port, a glimpse of the very reason for all of them being there. Below them in the sun winked Sevastopol. The mighty, shimmering harbour that divided the north part of the great arsenal from the south stretched across their front with the deep, harsh-sided ravines fingering towards them. Toy-like ships swayed almost imperceptibly at their anchor-cables, gun ports open and alert. From a ravine deep below them came incessant hammering from what, Morgan guessed, was a gang of shipwrights hard at work on a keel, whilst ribbons of freshly dug-soil seemed to be everywhere
in front of the city. The officers all stared intently through their glasses. Trenches, embrasures and great banks of spoil were being dug but with the exception of one, white tower there seemed to be no masonry defences.
‘That wee tower’s what they call the Malakoff.’ Their tele-scopes all swung in the direction indicated by Pennefather’s pointing blackthorn stick. ‘See how the Russians are throwing up other works to support it with cross-fire.’ The faster Pennefather spoke the more marked was his brogue.
A careful look at the grey worms of packed earth showed hosts of men at work with shovels and picks, sweating as hard as anyone on the Allied side. In each line gun positions were being prepared, giant basketwork gabions were already in place at many of them and Morgan fancied that he could even see a group of women hard at work shovelling dirt into sandbags.
The scene mesmerized him. Grand, golden domes reflected the sun back at him whilst milky white barracks topped with deep red tiled roofs stretched serenely along the quay sides. They had all been told of the Russian men-of-war that had been scuttled across the harbour front to prevent the Allied fleets from thrusting deep into the anchorage and with a careful adjustment of his telescope, Morgan could just bring into focus a line of masts sticking forlornly from the water. He let his glass drift further towards the north of the city. It was from here that they had approached on that weary march.
Morgan suddenly realized how difficult their job was going to be. They only had enough troops to lay siege to the southern side of the port, whilst the north side was wide open. They needed at least twice the number of men and guns to invest the place properly. Worse still, with an army free to operate beyond the Allied line, the besiegers would be mighty lucky not to find themselves besieged.
Then that horrid, too familiar sound. With a screech and whirr, iron shot skidded and bounced around them, closely followed by two bangs and—though none of them saw them—blossoms of light grey smoke from one of the enemy batteries. A shower of grit anointed their backs and rumps. Morgan found his fingers twisting into the coarse, chalky grass, the horror of the Alma back with him in an instant. With his eyes tight-shut and jaw clenched he was suddenly more frightened of being the only one to have thrown himself down than of anything that his enemies could do to him. He needn’t have worried. Less than a month ago they had all smiled at one another, falsely confident, as the first Russian rounds had sailed across their heads at the Alma. They might even have chuckled—‘What, afraid of a little iron? Not us.’ But those few, bloody hours had harrowed them all. Whilst their bodies might be whole, they all knew just how fragile they were and what a little iron had done to so many.
‘Get up you idiots and get back into cover.’ Even Pennefather was white. He brushed the dirt from his clothes, clutched at his glass and led the little stampede back down to the half-dug, half-safe, battery.
‘So, gentlemen, you’ve had a goddam’ good look at where you’re going to be digging over the next few weeks.’ Brigadier-General Pennefather had recovered a little of his composure. ‘See to it that none of your men exposes himself needlessly to Russian shot, we’re short-handed enough as it is.’
Like he’s just done to us, thought Morgan.
The slightly dusty, slightly chastened group of officers moved back down the track rather more quickly than they had arrived. The sweaty, grimy gunners paused in their labours and smiled.
***
‘Bet you’d prefer to be tucked-up with sweet Mary rather than mooning around out here, wouldn’t you, Morgan?’ Carmichael muttered quietly as they looked out over the dark, drizzly hillside.
‘I just hope her husband’s wound heals fast and we get him back to the company soon. Keenan did great work with the Colours once we were across the Alma—did you not see him?’ Morgan’s quiet sally had its intended effect, for Carmichael quickly moved on.
‘Just make sure you keep those forward pickets on their toes tonight in this muck, Morgan. These are just the conditions that the Russians like for skulking about.’
Morgan said nothing, wondering just how Carmichael knew such things for he had rarely seen his acting company commander visit even the main pickets on Shell Hill let alone the most exposed positions.
At first, the troops had thought that anything must be better than digging trenches under the Russians’ eyes, backbreaking work made worse by having to do most of it either on their knees or bent double. The naval gunners in Sevastopol had proved uncannily accurate and even working at night attracted well-aimed fire. So, when it was announced that the 2nd Division would divide its time between entrenchment and watching the hilly approaches to the exposed Allied flank at Inkermann, many of the men had welcomed it.
‘Meks a change to see Carmichael up ‘ere.’ Shell Hill was only a couple of miles from the heart of Sevastopol, just out of sight of the Russians’ outlying earthworks and half a mile from the 95th’s camp, but, on a night like this, it seemed to be the most desolate place on earth. Now Pegg pulled the cape of his greatcoat around his ears, screwed his dark-blue woollen cap further down on his head and tried to settle his back more comfortably against the earth bank.
‘Aye, saw no sign of him once we was across the Alma, an’ you should ‘ave seen him scuttle when Russ opened up on us digging party night before last. He were like that.’ Private Pacey skimmed his flat, mittened hand out of the deep cuff of his coat. ‘It’s Paddy Morgan on duty tonight, ain’t it? Never knew what to mek of ‘im at first, but ‘e’s the right man to have out ‘ere.’
Pegg and his friends had soon realized that picket work was dull, hard and dangerous. Pairs of men had to loiter, always alert, in the brush and broken ground watching for the Russians to sneak up from the gullies surrounding the harbour for if they managed to get guns up on the high point of Shell Hill, then the whole of the British position on Fore Ridge would be untenable. At first men had prowled forward to see just what the enemy was up to, but shells from two warships moored in the far reaches of the harbour had soon dampened their ardour. Two men from the 55th had disappeared some days ago. Shots had been heard, probably from their wraithlike Russian counterparts who could be trusted to spot any movement just as quickly as the British would.
Meanwhile the weather got colder and wetter. Whilst the drummers could keep a fire and kettle going behind one of the walls or banks that served as rally points just to the rear of the forward pickets, it was a desolate, tedious duty that bored the men yet left them uneasy and insecure.
‘What are yous pair purging about now?’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken, slid quietly in through the dusk to the little sheltering bank. He had with him two men who had just been relieved from picket. They were all soaked by fine drizzle, greatcoats hanging dankly on their spare frames, collars turned up, broad leather cross-belts now a soggy, dun colour, completely free of the white, parade-ground pipe-clay. All three had the muzzles of their rifles well down, the locks tucked closely under their armpits against the damp and rain.
Not much, Colour-Sar’nt. We was just saying what a treat it was to see Mr Carmichael, almost forgot what he looks like.’ Pegg hunched forward over the smoky fire, poured hot water over the crushed coffee beans in his tin jug and swirled it around. ‘Give us your mugs, then,’ All four produced their dented, stained tin cups before Pegg poured the precious liquid carefully into each. The party squatted down next to the bank, warming their cold, clammy hands on the metal, blowing the steam into the night.
‘Don’t know what you’re whining about, young Pegg, Mr Carmichael never got round to that flogging that Captain Eddington ordered, did he?’ One of the others crossed himself unobtrusively at the name of their dead officer, whilst Pegg busied himself, filling his kettle for the next brew.
Promotion had quite changed Richard Carmichael. His confidence, far from being dented by his unexplained absence during the fighting at the river, had soared. The company had been used to Captain Eddington’s attention to detail, to his insistence that weapons, ammunition and the like were
kept in good order, but they could see the point in this. What they couldn’t understand was Carmichael’s fussiness. Water bottles had to be worn on the right hip, the right hip, mind, not the left. Firewood could only be carried to the forward picket positions by every fifth man rather than by them all because it made the working parties look ‘slovenly’. Each muddy, sloppy tent area was inspected daily, clotheslines and soaking kit having to be cleared away just so that the position would look, according to Carmichael, ‘soldierly’. But they didn’t feel very ‘soldierly’ when they struggled back into dank, clammy clothes that should have been dry.
The troops might have forgiven all this if Carmichael had shared the dangers and hardships. Checking the forward sentries was left to Morgan and the colour-sergeant whilst Carmichael enjoyed several straight hours between his blankets most nights. He’d even been heard to say that for commanders, ‘sleep was a duty’. He occasionally swept round the reserve positions up on Shell Hill, but he’d never yet been known to venture forward to the picket line to chaff the troops on watch and to get a glimpse of the enemy. Predictably, the conversation drifted back to a recent company-sized working party in the forward trenches that Carmichael had led.
‘E wouldn’t ‘elp carry any of the bastard big gabions, nor the piles of piss-wet sandbags. You remember those star-shells and then more iron flying around than a Bolton scrapyard, don’t you? ‘E just buggered off. It was only Jock McGucken and Paddy Morgan who stopped the whole bleedin’ lot on us from running all the way to Balaklava.’ It was a favourite theme for Pacey and the others.
‘Stand up!’ McGucken, with a quiet authority brought the party to its feet as Morgan shuffled into the circle of light around the fire. Like all the others, he was wet and cold, his pistol and sword hanging heavily round his narrow waist, drizzle speckling the deep leather peak of his cap. The colour-sergeant flicked a quick salute onto the stock of his rifle. Now then, sir, I’ve just got a fresh brew on for you.’ The flames reflected off Pegg and the others’ frank, admiring smiles.
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