Tom bowed theatrically low, whilst shooting his wife a sideways glance that told her that he knew quite well where the 95th were. ‘Ladies, I’m glad to meet you.’
‘They’re both working as nurses with the regiment, they are.’ Betty was bursting to show off her friends. ‘In the thick of it at the Alma, they were, poor Mr Keenan got ‘urt—back in Scutari ‘e is now—and the Ninety-Fifth’s in the trenches all day and night...’
‘Aye, Betty I know what our gallant infantry do.’—He certainly did. Every time a patrol of the 8th Hussars trotted past a scruffy group in scarlet on the Balaklava Road, they were reminded. ‘Seen any Russians yet, donkey-walloper?’ or, ‘Get down off of yer ‘orse an’ burn some powder’ and other, similar sneers seemed to be the only words the foot-plodders knew. The age-old contempt of the common man on foot for his mounted better was made even more acute by the fact that the Cavalry Division had yet to see any proper fighting.
‘We’re out day and night keepin’ an eye on Russ, you know,’ Tom added, unnecessarily. ‘That Menschikoff’ll come sneaking out of the hills an’ have a crack at Balaklava before long, you see if ‘e don’t.’
The two women nodded their agreement. They had heard their own officers saying just the same thing, how the force under General Menschikoff that had marched out of Sevastopol and into the interior of the Crimea as the Allies approached, was a real threat.
‘Then all there’ll be between Russ an’ the port will be us and Scarlett’s Heavies.’ Tom was suddenly aware how defensive he sounded. ‘But never fear, we’ll show ‘em how to fight—just like your husbands have done,’ he added tactfully.
But this was all the gallantry they got from him. Farrier-Corporal Martin’s rum lasted no more than a gulp or two, then he stood and ushered the visitors from the tent as politely as he could, asking Betty to guide them to their wagon. Even before the pair had climbed over the tailboard into their chilly blankets there wasn’t a light to be seen in the camp of the exhausted Light Cavalry Brigade.
SIX
Balaklava
‘I dunno if it’s just another bloody flap, sir, but they do seem to be squaring up for a fight.’ Sergeant Ormond spoke for all of the carrying party.
Twenty-five men, one sergeant and five mules under Lieutenant Morgan had set off from the Inkermann position just as daylight broke on the long haul down into Balaklava to pick up supplies, powder and shot. Although the trip downhill was easy enough and time in the harbour always gave the troops the opportunity to gather news and a few luxuries, the return was backbreaking. Coarse, wet, empty sandbags, wooden staves, barrel hoops and all manner of awkward, heavy, dead-weight kit were bad enough. Worst of all were the square, painted wooden boxes of rifle ammunition that were specially designed, everyone knew, to take the skin off your shins whenever they could. When they were combined with obstinate, ignorant, farting asses that were as likely to throw their loads as to carry them, the whole journey became just an exhausting, bruising chore.
‘I guess you’re right, Sar’nt Ormond. We’ll just sit down a while and keep off the road until this lot sorts itself out. Tell the men to smoke and try to get those mokes under control, will you, whilst all this lot’s on the move.’
It wasn’t quite fully light when Morgan’s party had come over the ridge. As the road turned, the Balaklava valley and the River Tchernaya were laid out like a chess board below them. All of the earthen redoubts that protected the approaches to the harbour were now clearly visible as gun flashes lit the whole scene, unnaturally bright in the grey half-light. Staff officers—Morgan thought he saw the commander-in-chief, Lord Raglan—fussed around on the higher ground behind where they were sitting whilst horse artillery rattled down the road, sparks flying from their iron tyres and the hooves of the horses.
‘Hey, sir, I can hardly believe it, but the Turks seem to be putting up a bleedin’ good fight.’ Sergeant Ormond, like most others, usually damned anything Turkish, thoroughly doubting the reliability of the Ottoman garrisons in the vital redoubts. Someone in authority had the same reservations, for all of the four forts that were manned had a stiffening of British artillery NCOs whose job it was to lay and fire the guns. But whether it was now British or Turkish gallantry that was responsible for their spirited defence was irrelevant, for the further ones were giving as good as they got. Russian artillery flashes were everywhere.
‘They are, Sergeant Ormond, but just look at the number of guns that Russ has brought up. I fear he’s having a real go at the harbour this time—as we said he would—it ain’t just another scare.’
Even up on the plateau where the talk was about nothing except the siege, they had all been aware of Balaklava’s vulnerability and just how brittle the defences were. Every time they had any contact with the cavalry who were responsible for the mobile defence of the valley and the outer reaches of the harbour, they were left in no doubt about the strain that the horsemen had to endure. Although there was much mockery of their hanging back at both the Bulganak and the Alma, and whilst their commander, Lord Lucan, had been dubbed, ‘Lord Look-On’, none of the infantry envied the constant alarms, standing-to and idling in the saddle that was the lot of the Heavy and Light Brigades of the Cavalry Division.
Now the road behind them drummed with running feet. They all looked round to see two companies of riflemen trotting down the hill at the double. Their rifles were held parallel to the ground, black slings hanging loose—quite unlike any Line regiment—their green uniforms pale with the chalk dust that their shuffling boots threw up. As they ran a babble of Cockney and Scouse reached their ears as weak or sickly soldiers were pushed, prodded and cajoled by the others to keep up.
‘Bloody Rifles, full of mouth, as usual,’ Drummer Pegg gave voice to another prejudice.
As the green-clad columns drew away, though, three more men followed behind, two dragging and shoving a bareheaded, moaning lad. The little gang slowed to a standstill when they noticed Morgan’s party at the roadside, the casualty falling to his knees.
‘Here, you lot, can you look after Sam till we get back?’ A lance-corporal of the Rifle Brigade tried to get Sam to his feet, furious at having to expose this weakness to another regiment.
‘Less of that, Corporal, officer present.’ Sergeant Ormond pointed to Morgan, whilst making his own chevrons obvious.
‘Sorry, Sarge, didn’t see the officer. Can you take care of Private Crabb ‘til we get back though—we’ve just come off trenches an’ he’s got a touch of fever?’
‘Aye, leave him with us, we’ll get ‘im back to you.’ Sergeant Ormond took the stricken green jacket’s rifle as his mates laid him on the ground.
‘Thanks, Sarge, we’re Second Rifles from Four Div, by the way.’ The NCO and rifleman sprinted to catch up with their column.
‘Looks like this touch of fever came out of a whisky bottle, sir.’ Ormond shook his head over the already snoring Crabb. ‘Bloody Rifles have a real talent for the grog.’
‘Aye, that’s as maybe, but the Turks will be grateful even for that lot if they’re to hold Russ off. Look at all those flashes, there’s one whore of a lot of ‘em down there.’ Morgan could see many stabs of flame arcing towards the redoubts and speckling, rippling musketry.
‘Look there, sir, can you get your glass on that furthest redoubt?’ The redoubts ran right along the Causeway Heights, the line of hillocks that bisected the valley. Now Sergeant Ormond’s naked eye had seen something moving in the dawn light.
Sure enough, as Morgan swung his telescope onto the further earthworks, it was clear that the doubters’ fears had come true—the Turks were running. Down the slopes they scampered, some stopping to fire, some plodding doggedly, but most throwing their weapons away and just trying to save their skins. A broken black swarm poured out of the forts, immediately set upon by Russian cavalry, lances and swords rising with a lethal urgency.
Morgan focused on one turbaned figure, gamer than most. His pounding white spats shot up little puf
fs of dust as he pelted from bush to bush to avoid the two lancers on his tail. He paused behind one shrub, brought his musket up, there was a billow of smoke, clear but silent in Morgan’s glass, and one of the mounts crumpled throwing the rider over its head. The other horseman hesitated, but as the Turk dashed from cover, he couched his lance under his arm, and cantered in pursuit. There seemed to be no contest as the cavalryman bore down on the foot-soldier, but then the target stopped dead, turned, ducked and brought his bayonet sharply up under the Russian’s guard. He ripped the spike out of his foe’s chest, pulling the dead man from his saddle, but just as the body slumped to the ground, one foot still in the stirrup, two more men galloped from nowhere. A lance caught the Turk above the kidneys, the green and white pennon almost disappearing then re-emerging with each piston thrust. Morgan gasped, rapt by the silent death.
‘We’d better get ourselves down into the valley to lend a hand, Sar’nt Ormond.’
‘How, sir? There’s only an ‘andful on us—there’s a stack of Jocks an’ cavalry by the harbour ‘oo’ve done fuck-all fighting so far, sir. We’d just be a bleedin’, nuisance, especially now we’ve got that drunken Greenfly to look after.’
‘Maybe, but we’d better get down there just in case. Besides, what would Mr Carmichael say if we missed a fight?’
‘What indeed, sir...’ said Ormond flatly, seeing that Morgan was not going to be persuaded, ‘...right, you lot, get on the road in three ranks. Just leave that drunk bastard there...get the bloody mules at the back, we’re doubling down to the valley, so secure your equipment.’ Sergeant Ormond’s professionalism overcame his doubts—the officer had spoken so the officer would be obeyed, even if it involved getting the shit scared out of him for no good reason that he could see.
The little band bundled themselves into rough files, rifles at the trail in their right hands, left hands pushed back over their water-bottles and above the heavy ammunition pouches on their right hips to stop them bouncing, just as the manual said it should be done and, at Ormond’s word of command, off they trotted down the gravelled road to Balaklava.
***
Despite all the gloomy predictions, the two ladies had a peaceful night. The hospital wagon made a fair couch and there were no disturbances until about an hour before dawn.
Then the camp arose. Men stamped about cursing the cold and trying to light fires, horses were saddled with much snorting and clashing of bits whilst pails of water were banged against any and every solid object that came to hand. At least, so it seemed to both women. They had determined to avoid the dawn stand-to for just one day, to luxuriate in getting out of bed in daylight rather than in the dark. But no amount of blanket-pulling around the ears could deaden the noise of a full cavalry regiment starting their day’s business around them.
‘Will this noisy lot ever clear off and do some soldiering?’ Mrs Polley’s breath smoked in the dark, cold interior of the wagon.
‘Aye, soon enough, I hope.’ Mary mumbled back as she fought to stay just under the surface of sleep, snuggling deeper into the coarse warmth of the blankets.
Then, for a few precious minutes there was some quiet. The troops formed into their squadrons, then the regiment walk-marched out to join the rest of the Light Brigade trotting through the vineyards to their forward, dawn positions. The hooves and rattling gear had gone and just a few voices remained around the cooking fires, making sure that the cavalrymen would have something to fill their bellies once they returned. Blissful sleep swept over them both.
‘Now then, my dears, here’s a cup of coffee for you.’ The wagon’s canvas snapped back sharply showing a triangle of light-tinged dark framing the generous shape of Mrs Martin. Two scrupulously white china mugs were stretched out towards the dreamers. ‘Tom says it’s the best time of the day, so up you get and we can see the lads come back in for breakfast.’ The pair sat up and took the cups that Mrs Martin was offering. The cold draught that swept around their shoulders made them instantly regret it. Too befuddled by sleep to talk, the two women silently sipped their coffee.
‘Jaysus, what’s that?’ Mary knew before she asked the question. Down the wind came a great volley of heavy fire that seemed to fill the canvas topped-back of the wagon.
‘Guns, and lots of ‘em,’ replied Mrs Polley, ‘can they be ours?’
An awful, sickly feeling swept over both of them. They didn’t know the lay of this position like they did their own up on the ridge, but they had a dreadful suspicion that the gunfire was far too heavy and persistent for anything that the Turks had in the Redoubts. As they struggled into bodices, skirts and boots, the canvas whipped aside again.
‘Quick, girls, it’s just like Tom said, Russ must be having a go at the forts and we shall see the most beautiful charge of the Eighth. Do get up, you’ll miss it all, else’ Mrs Martin was all a-twitter with excitement, just as Tom had told her she would be.
As the light improved, though, there was little to be seen from the camp and the vines that surrounded it. The guns pounded away and they could hear the brassy notes of the Brigade’s bugles occasionally sounding one routine manoeuvre or another, but until a young, dismounted private led his horse up to the forge, nothing more was known. The blue-coated lad approached the women, busby under his arm, reins held lightly as his charger limped behind him.
‘Now, Mrs Martin, my horse has thrown a shoe and, I think, split its hoof. I’ve been told to wait here until the farriers get back. There isn’t a brew is there?’
‘I’m sure we can find something for you, David Shields, there’s plenty of firing, just as Corporal Martin said there would be. Are the Eighth to charge?’
The youngster smiled below his thin moustache. ‘I don’t know about that, Mrs Martin, but we’ve just seen Johnny Turk ‘oppit from Canrobert’s Hill and I think some of the other Redoubts have already fallen.’
‘Well, you must be disappointed to be missing the charge that we’re bound to make?’ Mrs Martin was quite clear in her mind’s eye of how events would unfold—but then, Tom had explained all.
‘There’s nowt to charge at the moment, Mrs M, just a bunch of fleeing Mussulmans and if our luck’s how it normally is, there’ll little beyond sore backs for the hosses and a soaking for us.’ Shields sauntered off to tether his chestnut.
Mrs Martin’s coffee was famous throughout the Brigade. It wasn’t that it was especially good, it was just the fact that it was always available—so the farriers’ tents and wagons became a rendezvous not just for the 8th Hussars, but for almost anyone that was passing. Mrs Martin, of course, loved it for it not only gave her a chance to hear the latest gossip, it also allowed her to dignify her Tom to anyone that would listen. Now the three women sat around the fire, plaids firmly clasped against the chill of the early morning, their conversation drowned out by the booming of the guns.
The Heavy Cavalry Brigade’s battery of horse artillery went hammering by on the road on the Causeway Heights above them. Half-heard commands brought the guns into action just a couple of hundred yards from the women and soon the din had taken on a new pitch. It was loud enough to swamp the noise of the scuttling Turks. Mary and Victoria Polley were gazing mutely into the flames of the cooking fire when Betty Martin swiftly rose to her feet, knocking over her neat little milking stool.
‘Oi, you blaggard, what d’you think you’re doing?’
From the middle of the surrounding vines a dowdy Turk had appeared, unarmed, blinking at the women, a British army blanket untidily under his arm. He was just sneaking into the other farriers’ tent when she noticed him. Despite her girth, Betty could move like lightning. Grabbing the short sword that had been left sticking into the wooden chopping block, she threw herself at the unfortunate man, swiping him about the bottom and thighs with the flat of the blade. How Tom would have approved.
The Turk yelped like a girl, eyes swivelling, booty dropping from his arms whilst his feet skidded in the mud to get away from his ample assailant. But Betty had the better
of him. Holding him by the collar she pasted him so hard with the blade that his yowls redoubled, loud enough to alert three of his companions. They burst from the brush, all spats, pantaloons and fezzes—the leader still had his musket and drew it up to club her.
Lethargy instantly gone, Mary and Mrs Polley launched themselves. Only a long spade came to Mary’s hand whilst Mrs Polley went to the aid of her friend with nothing more frightening than her nails and her enraged visage. They were just too late to save Betty from a butt-stroke to her shoulder that sent her sprawling and allowed the first Turk to make good his escape. But Mary’s dainty hands could be as cruel as her temper. Now they wielded the spade to good effect, banging the leading looter across the ear, making the metal sing. He dropped his musket, staggered, and with a strange oath stumbled off into the brush, hands clasped about his head. The third followed him, arms outstretched like a cartoon coward from one of the illustrated papers.
The roughest handling, though, was saved for the fourth marauder. Nails sank into his neck and cheek, he was slapped across both ears, his turban flying from his head. Mary had had time to recover and now she swept into the fray jabbing the hapless Turk’s rump and back with the blade of the shovel, driving him towards the flailing, ranting berserker known as Victoria Polley. Like a shuttlecock the poor man cannoned off the two women, not knowing which of the two inflicted worse pain.
The sport might have continued indefinitely. The Turk was bawling so much, though, that Private Shields came hurrying to the rescue. The women’s doughty performance thoroughly impressed the lad—as an act of brotherly sympathy he decided to use his fist rather than his sabre.
‘Ladies, please; please stand aside and let me deal with the rogue!’ Slaps and shovels were nothing compared to the punch that the muscular little trooper now delivered. Only last year Shields had walked off with a prize goose at Carlisle Fair when he’d floored a local bruiser; now his bemused and battered opponent got the same. A quick feint with the left distracted him before the cavalrymen floored him with a crushing hook just below the left ear. The Turk crashed into the mud, quite unconscious.
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