To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘Mr Noakes, sir, it’s our Tom off the farriers.’

  The surgeon stared, Betty was almost as bloody as her husband.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Martin, I’m sorry for it, but it’s good that you’re here with him. You’ll find razors and soap in the wagon, ladies, would one of you get his jacket off, if you please?’

  Mrs Polley had already started to strip off Tom’s tightly buttoned jacket, whilst Mary had run for hot water. just as Noakes said, brushes, a bar of yellow soap and six folded razors were in one of the drawers in his wagon and in no time she was lathering the blood-caked hair around the wound. When Glassdrumman was quiet she had occasionally shaved Tony Morgan—now she drew the razor over Corporal Martin’s gouged scalp with no less care or love. The clotted hair fell away from the blade exposing milk-white skin and a bruised, bloody swatch from which a ragged edge of bone emerged. As Mary shaved, so Mrs Polley dabbed and blotted.

  ‘This isn’t as bad as it looks, Mrs Martin.’ The surgeon might have reassured Betty, but the cut was as nasty as anything that Mary had seen before. A sabre had been swung at Corporal Martin from above, cutting through the scalp and bone like a knife half-taking the top off a boiled egg. Less than an inch of bruised skin held the flap in place and as the surgeon’s fingers probed carefully down, lifting the edge of bone, shiny grey matter peeped out from below.

  ‘Penrose, reflect some light from the mirror, can’t you? You, madam, hold this skin back...’ Mary clamped the flesh, ‘...and please get me some common dressing forceps, my dear.’ Mrs Polley guessed and luckily produced the right instrument from the surgeon’s box.

  ‘Damn me, the skull’s been cut right through. Get a scalpel, madam, and whilst I grip and probe the bone, you’ll see the skin move above it. Cut gently until I tell you to stop.’ Mary did just as she was told. Carefully she slit down into the skin whilst Noakes coaxed the fragment of bone through the opening that she had made, Mrs Polley wiping away the blood.

  ‘See here, ladies, we’ll have to take some matter with the bone, but I fancy that the dura mater is sound.’ The two women nodded, none the wiser. ‘Here, Mrs Martin, a curio for you and your husband.’ Noakes drew his apron over the fragment of bone, cleaning it of blood and scraps of tissue—it looked like a piece of bleached orange peel. ‘In years to come, you’ll shake that bit of bone in Corporal Martin’s face and tell him not to lose his head...ha!’

  The surgeon was clearly enjoying himself rather more than Mrs Martin.

  ‘Sir, will Tom be all right?’ Betty Martin gazed mesmerized at the bony souvenir and her broken, butchered husband.

  ‘Well, he’s had a bad blow to this bit of the cerebral hemisphere.’ Noakes pointed to the top, left part of the shaven skull.

  ‘Cerebral hemisphere...’ parroted Mary and Mrs Polley blankly.

  ‘We think that part of the brain controls speech; I guess that he might be a bit slurred—but then you’ll be used to that when’s he’s drink taken, won’t you...ha!’ Betty Martin was too contorted with dread to notice Noakes’s plodding wit.

  The surgeon felt no need to try to replace the piece of skull—the women, wide-eyed, nodded their agreement—and Tom was swabbed, plastered and bandaged before being carried away. The last that Mary and Mrs Polley saw of Betty was her walking next to the stretcher hand-in-unconscious-hand with her Tom.

  ***

  Morgan reckoned the day had gone well enough. True, they were trudging back up to their camp along a different route now that the Russians had taken a fort or two on the Causeway Heights and they had none of the stores that they’d been sent to get, but they’d been in a battle that none of the rest of the regiment had, hadn’t they? He’d also seen a grand cavalry charge for the first time in his life and none of his men or mules had a scratch on them. He was just thinking how he would avoid Carmichael’s inevitable anger when the click of approaching hooves drove his thoughts away.

  ‘Well, it’s Morgan, ain’t it, I’ve remembered you now, we met in Portsmouth.’ It was the Horse Gunner subaltern whom he’d met on the road that morning—he knew he’d met him before. ‘Did those Scotsmen want your help?’

  ‘Want our help? Why, they couldn’t have managed without us...’ Morgan was blustering, trying to cover for his lack of poise when they had seen each other just a few hours ago, but the gunner wasn’t listening.

  ‘Terrible news, ain’t it?’ He’d brought his tired horse to a halt and was talking down to Morgan from his saddle as the men gathered round, alerted by the note in his voice. ‘The whole of the wretched Light Brigade’s been thrown away. There’s hardly a man and not a single horse left standing and Lord Raglan’s going to sack both Lucan and Cardigan, they say.’ The group of infantrymen stood gawping at the Horse Gunner like so many children, mouths open, groping to understand the news. ‘Well, I must get on, see you on some other blasted heath, I daresay,’ and the gunner shook Morgan’s hand distractedly before clattering away.

  ‘A whole Brigade gone, Sar’nt Ormond.’ As they continued their plod towards home, Morgan still couldn’t quite grasp what he’d been told. ‘Seemed like we gave them a thrashing to me, not the other way round.’

  ‘Aye sir, well, we did, just shows how little you can see of a battle though, don’t it, sir, even if you reckon you’ve been right in the thick of it. But the ‘ole Light Cavalry Brigade gone, sir, that’s really bad.’

  Pegg was just within earshot. ‘Serves ‘em right: what’s left can come an’ do some proper soldiering with us, says I.’

  SEVEN

  Little Inkermann

  ‘So where did you and your little gang get to today?’ Carmichael reproached Morgan.

  Back in the company’s camp on the ridge, Morgan had been trying to explain to Colour-Sergeant McGucken why his carrying party had returned from Balaklava empty handed when Carmichael appeared. McGucken had understood, but the acting Company Commander wanted a proper explanation for this apparent dereliction, so Morgan had been led off to the gloomy interior of Carmichael’s tent out of earshot of the troops.

  ‘We were well on our way down towards the port when the firing started. The road was full of troops and guns and Russ was all over the place. So we went and joined in.’ Morgan was already guilty enough that he’d failed to bring back the mail and rum upon which the Company’s morale rested and that McGucken would have to explain his incompetence to everyone—he didn’t need Carmichael’s rebukes as well.

  ‘What do you mean, ‘went and joined in’? Who told you to do that?’

  ‘Well no one, Carmichael, but it can’t have been wrong to fight, can it?’ Morgan was genuinely puzzled.

  ‘Fight? Listening too much to the non-commissioned officers again and sticking your nose into other folks’ business, more like—you’ve hardly used a round. You’re becoming far too close to the men, Morgan, they take advantage of your slackness and now you’ve failed to bring back their letters and grog, the only pleasures they have. You need to understand them better: they’re simple creatures with simple needs who’ll follow a gentleman to the ends of the earth but mock anyone who tries to lick up to them.’ Carmichael had obviously been building up to this lecture for some time.

  In the half-light of the cluttered tent Morgan stood silently, trying to control his anger. He’d done his best to be respectful and loyal to Carmichael, even after the troops had started, quite openly, to make fun of his cowardice at the Alma and the fact that he dodged trench and picket duty.

  ‘Do you realize how badly this will go down with the men and that poor old McGucken will now have to flog down into Balaklava to pick up all the stores that you were meant to get?’ Carmichael continued, icily.

  Poor old McGucken, thought Morgan. Had Carmichael no idea how much he was despised by his own Colour-Sergeant? Why, McGucken had broken every unwritten rule of loyalty and military protocol to discuss a senior officer with a junior one and he knew how McGucken did his best to suppress the men’s derision towards their company commander. He longed
to tell Carmichael all this, to spit his contempt right in his face, but he knew that an outright row would only result in his being moved to somewhere else in the regiment under a cloud, leaving the men at Carmichael’s mercy. He stood there silently clenching his fists.

  ‘And another thing. The surgeon sent Mrs Polley and Mrs Keenan to get medical supplies from Balaklava. Like your party they were very late back and had completely failed to do as they were asked. They may only be wives, but they belong to this company as surely as any soldier and I won’t have them out of order. You wouldn’t know what might have detained the lovely Mary Keenan would you, Morgan?’

  Morgan felt that even in the murk Carmichael could see him colouring. ‘I haven’t the least idea, Carmichael. I haven’t seen Mary...er, Mrs Keenan, all day. Have you any idea just what’s gone on and how much ground the enemy has taken? And the whole Light Cavalry Brigade’s been destroyed just when we’d driven the Russians back. With blockheads like this in command we’ll be lucky if we’re the ones that don’t end up under siege.’

  ‘So, Morgan, you now think you know better than generals like Lord Raglan and Sir George Cathcart, do you?’

  ‘Yes, yes...I know Cathcart’s your damned uncle, but your smart connections don’t cut it with me or, ‘poor old McGucken’ come to that!’ Morgan could control himself no longer, though he instantly regretted his outburst.

  Carmichael was furious. ‘Don’t try to change the subject: be warned, Morgan, keep your hands off your former, so-called maid. She may be your servant’s wife, but she ain’t your property any more to do with as you please.’ Seething but guilty, Morgan knew that he had been bettered. Now get back to the Company and prepare to take our pickets out before last light, we’re to relieve the 41st. I’m giving you an extra duty to give you time to think about how an officer should conduct himself—Sar’nt Whaley will brief you. Any questions?’

  ‘No, sir.’ Morgan saluted stiffly before slapping the canvas tent door out of his way.

  ***

  By the time he’d gathered his glass, pistol and the coat that he’d left to dry, he was late. Trying not to run, Morgan reached the assembled picket as they gaggled around the tents, Drummer Pegg the centre of attention. Unnoticed, he caught the lad in a spirited re-enactment of the day’s fighting.

  ‘It was like that...’ Pegg brought his drumstick down over an imaginary Cossack’s head, ‘...General Scarlett cut the bugger’s skull in two, he did, blood and brains all over the...’

  ‘Party, party, ‘shun!’ Sergeant Whaley brought the sixty or so men to attention once he’d snatched himself away from Pegg’s impromptu theatrics.

  ‘Beg your pardon, sir, hut we was waiting on you. Just hearing what you and young Pegg had seen today, sounds like a grand do.’ Sergeant Whaley was typical of the regiment’s senior NCOs. Reliable, unimaginative, just a few inches over five foot and tempered by his young life in a Sheffield slum, he was as hard as a bit of his local steel. Whilst the men knew that any corner-cutting would be dealt with by a fast-moving fist, he was essentially kind, at twenty-six the father of three children and devoted to them. Now he stood rigidly at the salute, trussed up in coat, cap, belts, bayonet, ammunition, pouches and water-bottle ready for the long night watch on the hillside.

  The party shuffled back into three ranks. Laden like their Sergeant, the troops also carried bundles of kindling, strapped to their cross-belts in as soldierly a manner as possible in order to avoid Lieutenant Carmichael’s ire. Pegg had his drum slung on his shoulders, and was cradling the picket’s most precious possession, an earthenware rum bottle.

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it on the way up to Shell Hill, Sar’nt Whaley. Do I need to inspect the men, or have you done it?’

  ‘All done, sir. Rafferty somehow got a skin-full last night, but he’s all right now and I’ve made him take on extra water.’ Even here in a wind-blasted, tented camp several miles from what could be termed civilization and under the noses of the enemy, the troops could be depended upon to seek, find and guzzle the least drop of alcohol.

  ‘Good, well done. If you’re happy that you’ve checked that every round’s dry and that their cap-pouches are full, let’s be gone.’ Morgan could see that Whaley had done a good job for him. The black fury that he’d felt earlier began to seep away, it was so much better to be amongst the men.

  ‘Sir! Party, shoulder arms, left turn, by the centre, quick march.’ Whaley barked, muddy, worn boots stamped and the new picket set off through the tents and guy ropes of what passed for home for the half-mile trudge up to the oak-and brush-clad slopes of Shell Hill.

  The enemy would be close by. The last six weeks of marching, watching, digging, cooking and the occasional ghastly fright had taken their toll of the men. Permanently tired, sometimes dry but always hungry, a dull fatalism had crept over them—they’d resigned themselves to whatever fate had in store. Morgan knew them all now and trusted them to do their duty, but they were a very different lot from the keen, sprightly bunch of lads who had left England just a few months ago.

  Whaley and the young officer swung easily along by the side of the column. ‘What exactly happened today at Balaklava, sir?’ Whaley asked, for the infantry on siege and picket duty had heard nothing except rumour—and highly-coloured rumour at that.

  Morgan told him how the threat to the port had been defeated—despite the Highlanders’ dreadful marksmanship—how Pegg’s mock sword-play wasn’t so far from the truth and the needless sacrifice of most of the Allies’ cavalry.

  ‘But the real problem, Sar’nt Whaley, is the fact that all those redoubts are now in Russian hands. We won’t be able to walk directly to and from the port humping all that gear without getting shot at. Now there’ll be miles extra to go just to keep out of harm’s way and, I have no need to tell you, the men are on their uppers already.’

  ‘Aye, sir, they are. Have you seen the sick list? It’s bad an’ the other companies are mostly worse-off.’

  ‘I know it’s bad, but is Mr Carmichael fully aware of it?’

  ‘S’pect so, sir, but it don’t seem to register.’ Whaley shot a sideways glance at Morgan to see how his disloyalty would be received.

  ‘All right, Whaley, I’ll make sure that I speak to him after my next round of the hospital...’ Morgan’s terse reply gave the NCO the answer he was looking for, ‘...but the Russians have done better today than we realize and I’m sure they’ll want to have another go either down at the port or up here. So, Sar’nt Whaley, let there be no dozing or arsing about tonight.’

  ‘Right, sir, I’ll keep an eye and a half on Rafferty.’

  ***

  The hands of his watch must have been set in treacle. Every time he got back to the light of one of the fires and pulled at its chain to check, time had almost stood still. Morgan had spent all night tramping up to the outer pickets, speaking with this pair of lads, plodding a bit further, having a chat with that lot, confirming that the bushes casting dark shadows, ‘...there, sir; there, can’t you see?’ were not a set of Muscovites bent on murder before coming back to rest by the fire. But how the time dragged. Church bells had been pealing all night in Sevastopol to celebrate the victory at Balaklava and when Sergeant Whaley had thrust a cup of coffee into his dozing hand just before dawn stand-to, they were ringing louder than ever.

  ‘All quiet, Sar’nt Whaley?’ Asked Morgan, only half-awake.

  ‘Aye, sir, just them bloody bells a-going all night. Nowt else to report, I had to relieve Pierce—least, he had to relieve hissen, got terrible shits he has. New picket will be up shortly.’

  ‘It’s Sunday, Sar’nt Whaley—Russ must be delighted with a victory, no wonder they’re ringing. Is that the new picket coming?’

  Through the dark scrub a file of men could be heard approaching. Boots scraped, equipment slapped against legs, there was the odd, subdued cough and whispered challenges as they reached the outer pickets.

  ‘Hello, sir. I’ve got sixty-two for you from Number Three
Company.’ McGucken’s teeth flashed in the firelight. Knowing that Morgan had been condemned to another sleepless spell on the hillside, he’d come to collect the men of his own Company and guide them back to camp.

  ‘Hello, Colour-Sar’nt, we’ve had a grand night here. All’s well, though they’re busy down in Sevastopol.’

  ‘Aye, sir, them bells could get on your tits, though, couldn’t they? Mr Carmichael done his rounds, has he?’

  ‘No: well, if he has he was mighty stealthy about it. What are these Three Company boys like?’

  ‘No bad, sir, they did all right at the Alma, when all their officers was down. You’ll know most of the NCOs.’

  ‘Off with you, then, Colour-Sar’nt—get our lads back for breakfast. These boys and I’ll keep the Tsar at bay whilst you lot slumber.’ Morgan smiled back at McGucken.

  With just a few easy instructions, the burly Scotsman gathered the Grenadiers around him and set off down the scrubby hill into the first light of dawn.

  ‘Mr Morgan’s goin’ to be fit for fuck-all with another night up on the ‘ill there, Colour-Sar’nt.’ Sergeant Whaley was bone-tired himself—he could only pity Morgan.

  ‘Aye, Mick, but at least you know that if Mr Morgan’s on duty the job will be done right.’ McGucken was hard to please; Sergeant Whaley had never heard him being so generous with his praise. ‘He did well at the Alma and the lads trust him. Wish I could say the same for Mr Carmichael.’

  Sergeant Whaley wasn’t used to being taken into the Colour-Sergeant’s confidence like this. He probed no further, ticking off in his mind the thousand jobs that he had to do before he could get his boots off and climb into his blankets.

  As Morgan watched them go, one man hung back just a few paces and, hoping he hadn’t been seen, drained the last few drops from the rum jar. Even in that light Morgan recognized his short, round form.