The horses were reined in, blowing gently, just as they reached the gritty clearing where McGucken and Morgan waited. ‘Bloody hell, sir, the commanding officer and adjutant haven’t got their greatcoats on. Mr Carmichael did say that we were to be in cold-weather dress, didn’t he?’ McGucken fretted.
‘Yes, he did, but he’s got his coat on and a face like a dose of pox—don’t worry about it.’ Morgan smiled inwardly at Carmichael’s evident discomfort.
But Pennefather swung down cheerily enough from the saddle, wrapped in a sheepskin poshteen that proclaimed his earlier hard campaigning in India. Both waiting men took a stiff pace forward before snapping to the position of attention, Morgan bringing his hand to his cap, McGucken slapping the sling of his rifle.
‘Sir, Colour-Sergeant McGucken and Lieutenant Morgan, commanding the forward pickets of the 9Sth’s Grenadier Company, sir.’ Morgan went through the ritual.
‘Yes, yes, goddamn you. Stop all that barrack-yard claptrap, I know you lot right enough. How are you, Colour-Sergeant?’
Pennefather grinned and reached out to shake McGucken’s hand. The Scot fumbled with his weapon before stretching a mittened hand, slick with rifle oil, towards Pennefather, a surprised smile showing through his beard.
‘Fine, sir, and yerself?’ That a brigadier-general would bother with just a senior NCO was remarkable—Carmichael’s frown deepened.
‘I’m prime, thank you, but what scrapes have you been letting Mr Morgan get into?’ Pennefather reached towards the young officer’s bayonet-torn coat, pushing his fingers through the rents and waggling them.
‘The moths have been at him, sir, I’m always having to grip him about his turnout.’ A genuine ripple of laughter spread through the group, though it didn’t quite reach Carmichael.
‘Moths be damned, lead more like: what is it about the Ninety-Fifth, you’re like magnets to the bloody stuff? Look at Hume and McDonald, more sieves than soldiers.’ The commanding officer and adjutant glowed with pleasure as the general drew attention to their flirtations with death. Daylight showed through a shot-hole in Hume’s epaulette whilst stuck in the whistle-holder on McDonald’s cross-belt was a Russian bullet. Morgan hadn’t seen him since the day after the Alma when the Scot had been showing off the saucer-sized bruise on his chest that the round had caused.
Without taking his eyes off Morgan and McGucken, Pennefather gently smoothed the hairs that grew around a new, livid scar on his own horse’s flank before handing the reins to his aide. Now I’ve heard all about you testing the thickness of the Muscovites’ skulls with your glass a few days ago, young Mr Morgan of Cork. Tell me what you think Russ will do next.’ Pennefather was smaller, older, grizzled against the subaltern’s youth and vitality, but there was an immediate empathy between the two Irishmen.
‘Well, sir, I believe they’ll have another go up here at Inkermann. We saw ‘em off when they last tried it, but that was only a reconnaissance and now they know how we’ll react next time. The problem is that if they come up on the blind side of Shell Hill we won’t see them until it’s too late and if they get enough guns up they could silence ours over yonder...’ Morgan indicated the main British positions on Home Ridge three-quarters of a mile away, ‘...quick as you like.’
‘You’re right, of course. Russ had six guns up here in no time the other day and the ground is so broken down there that he’s got any number of covered routes to advance up once he’s out of Sevastopol.’ Pennefather peered at the deep, scrubby ravines flanked by great, craggy ridges that led up from the Tchernaya valley below them. ‘And the rumour is that reinforcements are on their way from the interior of Russia. Any signs?’
‘Last night’s picket reported large flocks of sheep and shepherds on the heights opposite, sir.’ Carmichael, neatly dressed and with no sign of battle on his clothes or equipment, cut in quickly rather than let Morgan—his so valiant junior—monopolize the General. He pointed across to the area of St Clement’s monastery on the other, Russian-held side of the valley.
‘When did you get to know this?’ Pennefather rounded on Carmichael, instantly cross.
‘This m...morning, sir, when the night picket made their report,’ Carmichael stammered.
‘Well, that’s hours ago, I need to know these things faster, Carmichael. Large flocks mean large numbers of troops on the move and if they’re on that side of the valley they won’t have come out of Sevastopol, will they? They’ll be coming from the north, just where any reinforcements will be approaching from. You’ve got to be quicker with the passage of intelligence like this.’ Carmichael wished he hadn’t spoken. ‘Go on, young Morgan, what else?’
Conscious of his audience, Morgan tried to be as unassuming as he could. ‘Sir, the few defences that we have over at the Sandbag Battery,’ Morgan looked towards a disused two-gun battery, invisible in the scrub, ‘...and the Barrier,’ he pointed below them to a loose, stone breastwork that dominated the Post Road snaking out of the steep Quarry Ravine, ‘...can’t see each other, let alone support one another with fire. We haven’t got enough men or guns to hold this flank against a determined attack. Should we not dig more positions and get the French to lend a hand?’
There was an embarrassed silence. How would the General receive this subaltern’s heretical suggestion that the British should be helped out by the French? No one came to Morgan’s aid whilst they waited to see which way Pennefather would jump.
‘You have a point, Morgan.’ The sighs of relief from colonel, adjutant and company commander were almost audible. ‘But the problem is that the whole focus is upon getting those goddamn trenches and parallels close enough to the town for an assault to take place before the fucking weather gets any worse. If I suggest to milords that we should take time off from worming away towards Sevastopol in order to make things safer up here, I’ll be counting blankets back in Horse Guards quicker than kiss yer arse.’
Predictable chuckles greeted this.
‘Why not use some of those Turks that are loafing around in Balaklava to do the donkey work, sir?’ Carmichael tried to make up some lost ground.
‘Because, Carmichael, as you so rightly point out, they’re bloody idle. It takes as many of our boys to supervise the useless gits as there are of them. Didn’t you see how they ran the other day from the redoubts on the causeway?’ Even Morgan winced for Carmichael.
The tension was broken by a soldier who slipped quietly through the brush before coming to a startled attention in front of so many officers and horses. To McGucken’s relief he was tolerably smart, his weapons freshly oiled.
‘Go on, boy, ignore us, say what you’ve come to say.’ Pennefather put the man at his ease.
‘Your honour, I’ve been sent by Sar’nt Whaley to tell Mr Morgan that them flocks of sheep are a-moving and that a couple of what look like commissariat wagons have been seen with them.’ The soldier reported confidently and well.
‘Where was you born, son?’ Pennefather asked.
‘Dublin, sir.’ The soldier looked surprised and pleased to be asked such a question by a general.
‘Dublin, eh, what about ye?’
‘Doin’ rightly, your honour.’
‘That’s good work, my boy.’ Pennefather deliberately made the man feel that it was his efforts and his alone that had brought such crucial news to his attention. ‘I reckon that something’s brewing, Hume and that young Morgan here may not be too far from the mark. Fetch my horse, will you, I must get back to Division and tell them all.’ Pennefather pushed his boot into the stirrup, threw his leg over the saddle with practised grace and, gathering his reins, continued, ‘You’ve got as good a pack of hounds here as any in the Army, Hume, but try not to let the likes of Morgan be so damned bold, will you? We’ll be needing every bloody man in the near future if I’m not mistaken. You’ve done well, good luck to you all.’ The general and his aide spurred away through the brush with the 95th standing rigidly at the salute.
‘Well done, the Grenadier Company.�
� The commanding officer was obviously pleased with the way the visit had gone and, despite Carmichael’s earlier ham-fistedness, the news that had sent Pennefather away in such a lather. ‘Please tell Sar’nt Whaley that he’s done well and let me know at once if you see anything more of interest.’ Hume and his Adjutant reined their horses around and trotted off on a path through the shoulder-high scrub.
Carmichael dismounted, holding his thoroughbred’s bridle in his right hand whilst gently stroking its nose with his left. ‘Thank you, Colour-Sar’nt. If you’d like to get back to the men I just need to have a word with Mr Morgan here before I come and inspect the pickets.’
McGucken hesitated for a split second, knowing quite well what was coming. But it wasn’t his place—the mutual loathing of the two subalterns was officer-business and nothing to do with him. With a ‘sir’ and a stamp, McGucken turned about and made off.
‘So, Morgan, you’ve quite made your number with friend Pennefather, haven’t you? You had to wear your heroically torn coat—it doesn’t impress the men you know, they expect an officer to be above such behaviour.’
Morgan was taken aback by the venom in Carmichael’s words. ‘But it’s the only one I’ve got and the damn thing’s not been off my back since it got ripped—you told us to be in our coats.’ Morgan was immediately cross with himself for being so defensive. Pennefather had picked him out in front of the commanding officer, whilst Carmichael had looked an ass. Why didn’t he just say so?
Now get back on duty and try to behave like a proper officer should.’
One day, Richard Carmichael, I’ll show you what being an officer’s really about, thought Morgan, but all that he could manage was, ‘Very good, sir,’ before he trudged back to the men and another sleep-starved night.
***
‘Where in God’s name d’you suppose they’ve got to, Sar’nt Ormond?’ Morgan whispered.
Once the thick, sticky fog had taken hold just after darkness fell, the order had been given by the duty field officer to pull the pickets back from their forward positions on Shell Hill to their rallying points on the lower slopes.
‘Buggered if I know, sir. I posted ‘em hereabouts, but it all looks the same in this dark and shit, don’t it?’ There was a real note of concern in the normally stolid Sergeant’s voice.
Morgan had passed the order on to his NCOs and in dribs and drabs the men had come wandering back in to form a shorter line of sentries that was easier to control but which could not foil an enemy sally as quickly. Eventually, they had all returned except for Little and Shaw, an old hand and a younger man, who had been posted within spitting distance of where the Russian sentries normally stood. After Ormond and a corporal had blundered around for an hour or more in the cloying fog, and still returned empty handed, Morgan realized that he would have to lead the search himself.
The story of the picket of the 55th who had been silently overpowered by the Russians loomed large in both men’s imaginations. On a stormy night a few weeks earlier, fresh sentries had looked in vain for the men whom they were to replace. At first light they discovered nothing more than crushed grass, broken twigs and one slightly blood-stained belt. No shots or cries had been heard and so the legend of wraith-like Cossacks who stalked their prey with nothing more than wickedly sharp knives had been born. The story had its uses when it came to keeping exhausted lads alert on sentry, but now those Cossacks seemed awfully real and frighteningly close.
Each bush seemed to take on human form as the pair tried to stick to the little goat tracks in the brush, the fog weaving in and around the branches as silently as the imaginary Cossacks. The damp would almost certainly have got to the charges in Morgan’s pistol and Ormond’s rifle, making both utterly unreliable, so they picked their way slowly forward, sword and bayonet outstretched.
‘Blanket,’ hissed Ormond into the fog and dark, hoping to hear ‘pillow’ as the answer to his challenge. There was almost always an irony in the daily-changing password that was designated and issued by Divisional headquarters. Usually it revolved around food, drink or women but today the joker who thought it up had decided to concentrate on another commodity that was in short supply—comfort. There was nothing but silence in the drifting fog...or was there?
‘Listen, Ormond, can you hear something?’ whispered Morgan.
‘Yes, sir, I thought I did, that’s why I chall...’
‘Hush...there!’ Morgan cut Ormond off for out of the stillness and the slight rustling of the leaves came a strange, rasping noise as if someone or something was fighting for breath.
‘I can’t mek it out, sir, we’ll ‘ave to get closer.’
The officer agreed with a slight nod and the pair eased forward as gently as possible trying, in the dark, to stop twigs from whipping noisily back across their path.
Then they found them. Little and Shaw lay at their feet, face down and quite still, rifles below their bodies pointing towards the Cossacks. In the dark it was almost impossible to see what had happened to them until that curious, choking noise came again from young Shaw’s throat as both men’s backs rose and fell rhythmically.
‘They’re fast a-bleedin-sleep, sir, I don’t believe it this close to the enemy.’ Ormond whispered his outrage.
‘Wake the stupid bastards up, Sar’nt Ormond. Take their names and get them on report tomorrow morning. The commanding officer will have to deal with this.’ Morgan was furious, not just with the utter stupidity of what the men had done, but also with the seriousness of the offence and the disgrace that it would bring.
‘Mr Morgan, sir, can I mek a suggestion that ain’t exactly right but might be better for everyone?’ The snoring continued as Ormond made his case. ‘If we report this we’ll lose two men for weeks whilst they serve their sentence or recover from the lash. Usually, they’re fair to middling good an’ we can’t afford to be any more short-handed. Besides, the company will lose its name. You know how much is being asked o’ these boys—just walk away a few paces, sir, an’ let me sort it out.’
Morgan could see Ormond’s arguments perfectly. Too much was being demanded of the men who, as they would put it themselves, were permanently, ‘chin-strapped’. They rarely got more than a few hours’ sleep, the food was hardly enough to sustain them whilst the physical work and danger were remorseless. Yet if these two men were taken away for field punishment the strain would be all the greater for the others. Besides, hadn’t he found himself pecking like a hen just the other night? But if the other soldiers found out that he’d been soft on these two then...well, he just didn’t know, but it was a risk he was willing to take. He nodded almost imperceptibly to Ormond and walked off a distance into the bushes.
There were muffled oaths and curses as Ormond kicked both men awake. Angry mutterings followed answered by plaintive whispers. Morgan heard a fist meeting flesh, a slight cry, then another thump. There was silence for a moment then a few more angry, inaudible words before the trio pushed their way towards him through the foliage.
‘Found ‘em, sir. Their relief must have missed their way an’ these two didn’t want to leave their posts to go a-lookin’ for them.’ Ormond’s story might have been more plausible had Shaw not been holding his coat-cuff to his nose.
***
‘Anything else?’ The brigade commander’s worries about enemy movements were at the front of Morgan’s mind. McGucken had questioned all of the men as they came back down the hill about what they had seen or heard, now Morgan demanded to know every detail.
‘Not really, sir. There’s more than the usual din from the church bells in ‘Pol—just like there was before the last sortie—but they’re always clanging the bastards, an’ it don’t signify. No, it’s the wagons that a couple of the full-screws thought they heard that worry me.’ McGucken wasn’t normally worried by anything.
‘You heard what the general said about enemy reinforcements. Tell me again what the NCOs thought they heard, please.’ Morgan pressed his Colour-Sergeant.
; ‘Well, sir, both Corporals James and Cleary said that they heard heavy wagons or maybe guns moving towards the town on the other side of Shell Hill. Nothing they ain’t heard before, but they was worried when the major pulled the pickets in ‘cos we can’t hear nothing from this far down the slope.’ McGucken voiced Morgan’s own fears.
Morgan understood why the duty field officer—today Major Grant from the 41st—wanted to shorten his picket line in the fog, but he’d never forget the last time that the Russians had crept up unseen over this same piece of ground.
‘Well, there’s nothing else for it, Colour-Sergeant, I’ll have to go and take a look for myself. Find me someone as an escort, please.’
‘Do you ‘ave to, sir...all right, but just don’t get yerself killed, Mr Carmichael would never forgive me—he wants to keep that pleasure for himself.’ McGucken smiled; ‘I’ll send young Pegg with you, you’ll be too busy looking after him to find extra drama, but you’ve only got a bit more than an hour before stand-to, so don’t fanny about, sir.’
So it was that for the second time in a couple of hours, Morgan found himself stalking his way forward through the foggy, dripping leaves of Shell Hill. But instead of a trusted NCO beside him, this time he had only Drummer Pegg. The boy’s rifle and bayonet were almost as long as he was tall and he held the weapon so firmly that his knuckles showed white. With eyes darting madly and pink tongue hard at work on his downy lips, all Pegg’s normal bluster seemed to have left him.
To Do and Die Page 21