To Do and Die

by Patrick Mercer

  ‘So what do we do if we do see any o’ them Cossacks, sir?’ It was the second time Pegg had asked.

  ‘They won’t be Cossacks, Pegg, just ordinary old Muscovites like the ones we thrashed at the Alma. Fire at their bellies or give ‘em a few inches of steel if they get that close and then run like the devil back to the Company—I won’t be far behind.’ But even the homely description of the enemy did little to steady Pegg.

  On they crept; Pegg’s nervousness so infected Morgan that every time the lad jumped at the swirling fog, so did he. Eventually the slope flattened out as they reached the hill’s crest and Morgan beckoned to Pegg to flop carefully down and listen. Both men lay prone, mouths open to amplify any noise. At first it was hard to hear anything beyond the distant bells in the town, and Morgan’s attention began to drift. He wondered where Mary was now and if she gave him even a thought. Her last words to him when he’d been with her in the back of the hospital cart—‘It’s all or nothing’—were as clear now as they had been when she said them, yet he doubted that she appreciated exactly what they meant. How was an officer—and a Protestant one at that—meant to give up everything for a soldier’s wife? And that was another problem, how the hell was he going to manage when James Keenan—Sergeant James Keenan if you please—came back to the company? Quite apart from anything else, was he going to survive the fighting and...

  ‘Sir, can you hear that?’ Pegg suddenly hissed. The boy had been a parody of attentiveness ever since they’d arrived, mouth wide, hands cupped behind his ears just as he had been taught in training. He’d constantly twisted his head back and forth, his hands making him look like an ill-kempt field-mouse, until he’d heard the noise. ‘Wheels, sir, lots of ‘em down in the valley.’ He’d heard just what the others had. Morgan pulled himself from his reverie, listened hard for a moment then he, too, picked up the incessant rumble. Satisfied at last, he led the boy back down the hill just as the first glimmer of dawn lit the fog.

  But Morgan’s urgent, flapping hand and tense shoulders soon had Pegg sinking to a crouch, rifle at the ready. The officer had sensed them before Pegg was even aware of any danger. Yards away and just visible were two, grey, greatcoated figures, their soft caps and weapons just discernible. They were muttering to each other, unaware that they were being watched.

  ‘They’re ours, sir, reckon it’s Ben Jenkins and Johnny Peat.’ The boy’s lips were inches away from Morgan’s ear. They certainly looked like their own people, but what were they doing this far forward when the pickets had been withdrawn? Perhaps McGucken had sent a couple of lads to look for them—but had they been gone that long?

  ‘Blanket,’ Morgan challenged, just loud enough to be heard by the pair. Both stiffened, shrank down in the brush and turned towards them.

  ‘Hey Ben, Johnny Peat, it’s us.’ Pegg spoke quite clearly and rose up to make himself obvious in the murk—it was almost the last thing he did. Two stabs of flame lit the mist accompanied by guttural shouts

  ‘Fire, Pegg for pity’s sake.’ The lad brought his rifle to the shoulder and squeezed the trigger, but nothing happened except the pop of the percussion cap. ‘Go, boy, I’ll hold them.’ Pegg dashed downhill—he didn’t need to be told twice. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Morgan throwing himself at the enemy, his sword slashing in the mist. He ran as hard as the branches would let him until some inkling of duty pulled him to a halt. If he arrived back in the company without his officer he would never live it down, so he turned about, trying to control his breathing and steady his heaving bayonet.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Crashing through the bushes behind him came Morgan.

  ‘Over here, sir.’ The young officer swerved hard in his direction, gasping for breath. In the half-light Pegg could just see the crimson stain on Morgan’s blade.

  ‘Have I done something to upset Jenkins and Peat? And when did they learn Russian? Never, in the name of all that’s holy, do that to me again, Pegg.’

  ‘No, sir, sorry, sir.’ The drummer’s eyes were round with fear. ‘I think I can hear the company just over there, sir.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, boy, and it’s not some more of your mates from Moscow!’

  Close at hand, through the wisping mist, came the coughs and scuffles of several men and Morgan could just pick out the start of the earthy bank that his company used as a rallying point. But this was the most dangerous part of the whole patrol. Just before the night picket handed over to the day picket, all the troops would be roused, alert and ready to fight, each weapon pointing in the very direction from which the pair were now coming. The men were jumpy for they had picked up the officers’ and NCOs’ worries and on top of this the recent firing suggested that Russians were nearby—fingers would be itching to pull triggers.

  ‘Now Pegg, just let me do this, will you—no more bloody shouting out or any of that damned malarkey that nearly got you plugged when you’d been out shooting rabbits: remember?’

  How could Pegg forget it. He was still due a flogging for that scrape—he nodded sheepishly.

  ‘Get down on your belly, boy, and do as you’re told.’ Morgan lay down next to the drummer before raising himself up on his arms and bellowing, ‘Blanket!’ as loudly as he could into the fog before instantly dropping flat in the coarse grass.

  The tension in the sudden silence to their front was palpable. Murmurings and coughing ceased, there was a pause and then, in broad Nottingham, ‘Oo the fuck is it? Get ‘ere with yer ‘ands ‘oop.’

  Both of them rose from the ground, arms held high and walked towards the disembodied voice.

  ‘I think you mean, ‘pillow’, don’t you, Carlton?’ Morgan chided as he stared down the muzzle of a rifle that emerged from the gloom.

  ‘Oh aye, sorry, sir.’ The soldier lowered his weapon, grinning with relief at his officer. ‘We was on the lookout for you, sir, ‘ave you got that young twat Pegg with you, we ‘eard firing?’

  Pegg, damp and bedraggled followed behind, ‘I’ll give you, ‘twat’, John-bleedin-Carlton, next time you come whining round me for a hot brew.’ All Pegg’s bravado had returned now that danger was past.

  ‘Stow it you two. Where’s the Colour-Sergeant, Carlton?’ ‘Yonder, sir,’ Carlton nodded towards the next thicket, ‘day picket’s just arrived, Forty-Seventh int it?’

  Morgan moved through the gloom, half-seeing his own troops who were still silently scanning their front. One of their own guides had led the new picket of the 47th with a subaltern at their head, up to McGucken. Now a knot of figures stood talking quietly.

  ‘Och, sir, was that you bangin’ away? You didn’t manage to get Pegg shot, did ye?’ McGucken was clearly relieved to see his officer in one piece.

  ‘No, it was them banging at us, I fear. I slashed one of ‘em,’ Morgan saw how the 47th’s officer cocked an eyebrow at him and immediately regretted mentioning it, ‘but Pegg’s rifle missed fire, we’ll need to draw all of the charges when we get in.’

  ‘Aye, sir, I was just tellin’ Mr...sorry, sir, it was Mr Jocelyn wasn’t it—that it’ll be hard as hell to keep their fire-locks dry in all this...’

  As if to prove McGucken wrong there was a rifle shot not ten feet away followed by a yelp. Before anyone could react one of the 95th’s Grenadiers came trailing tendrils of fog, towing another, his face screwed up in pain, weapon and cap missing.

  ‘It’s Strawson, Colour-Sergeant, his rifle just went off by itself.’ To underline the point, the soldier thrust Strawson’s hand forward for inspection, a ragged, oozing hole showed white with bone splinters just behind his thumb, whilst his palm was black with powder burns.

  ‘Strawson, you stupid bastard, how many times ‘ave you been told never to put your hand over the muzzle. Get it dressed, someone.’ McGucken knew at once that Strawson would never return to duty. Such an accident was bad enough, but the fact that it happened in front of another regiment was doubly galling.

  ‘Listen, Jocelyn,’ Morgan knew the 47th officer a little fro
m card schools in Varna and he was keen to distract him from this embarrassment. ‘Russ is busy again and he’s got his pickets well forward. We heard heavy traffic all night in the valley and I fancy that the reinforcements that’ve been talked about may have arrived. But it’ll be hard to know anything until this fog lifts.’

  ‘Fine, Morgan, thank you. You just get your boy with a hole in his paw back to hospital, the Forty-Seventh can handle things.’

  He’d always suspected that Jocelyn was a supercilious clown—now he knew it.

  ***

  Morgan left the men starting the laborious process of drawing charges. As he returned to his tent looking for dry clothes and something hot to drink, the Sergeants had been attaching steel corkscrew-like, ‘worms’ to the end of the troops’ ramrods, before pushing them down the barrels and twisting the teeth of the harder metal into the soft lead of the bullet. But the rifling of the Minie made this a tricky operation and with only four worms amongst the sixty-odd men, it would take time to get every rifle clear, dry and ready to be reloaded.

  ‘Thank you, Peters.’ He’d only just been given a new orderly. A small, slightly timid, older Lancashire man, Peters had twisted an ankle at the Alma. What he lacked in confidence, though, he made up for in the way that he looked after his officer. A scalding mug of hot chocolate had been waiting for him: now he sipped at it whilst pulling off his cap, his sword-belt and pistol.

  ‘Jaysus, that’s good and hot, Peters, you made it yourself?’

  ‘Aye, sir, I did. Now, gimme your cutlery and pistol, sir, an’ I’ll get ‘em oiled.’ Peters limped to reach the weapons.

  ‘Thank you, deal with the sword first, if you please.’ But as Peters drew the blade from its scabbard and looked at the crusted blood, his face fell, but before either could say anything a spatter of firing was just audible on the dawn breeze.

  ‘D’ye hear that Peters?’

  ‘Aye, sir, it’ll just be the new pickets blazin’ away at nowt. You know how green most of the other regiments are.’ But there was another rattle in the distance. ‘If they don’t give over soon, though, sir, we’ll all be turned out again an’ your chocolate will get cold. Best drink up.’

  Morgan had to smile to himself. So, Jocelyn and the 47th could handle it could they? They’d probably seen a lonely Russian scout and now the whole of the picket line was turning good powder to smoke and hot air.

  ‘I don’t know how you get that chocolate so hot, there wouldn’t be a drop of milk would there?’ Morgan had just handed his mug back to his servant when a gut-wrenching noise shattered his complacency—with a screeching brrr a heavy gunshot flew past the tent. ‘Christ, Russ must have got guns up on Shell Hill—we’ve been caught bare-arsed for a second time.’

  Another shot ricocheted off the ground so close to the tent that grit and dirt were hurled against the canvas.

  ‘Give me my belt, Peters.’ Morgan grabbed it from his servant who was as white as the tent’s canvas, but getting it round his waist was a different matter. His hands shook: time after time he tried to fit the snake buckle; he only succeeded in getting it done up by devoting every bit of his attention to it and shutting out the cracking gunfire. Christ, I can’t let the men see me in this state. He was appalled by the weakness in his legs and the churning of his stomach. Thank God that Peters was there for he had to control himself in front of him. At last he had all his equipment on and he turned to leave the tent.

  ‘Ere, sir, it’s a bit cooler now.’ The servant passed him the remains of the hot chocolate whilst Morgan wished that he could say the same for himself.

  ‘Thank you, Peters, but I need this more.’ In one practised movement he grabbed his silver hip-flask that had just been refilled with brandy and pulled heavily at it. Then he realized what he’d said. Did he really ‘need’ it? Certainly, its fire calmed him and his hands were steadier—but he dreaded the men smelling it on his breath.

  Almost as if stepping out into sheeting rain, Morgan hunched as he left the flap of his tent. No sooner was he outside than there was a mighty crash from a tent close by—its canvas flew apart, spewing the contents and a crazily-twisted trombone skipped to a halt a few feet away from him.

  That’ll cost us a king’s ransom, he thought inconsequentially. The band’s instruments—bought out of the officers’ pockets—had been stored all together and now lay ploughed and broken by a roundshot.

  Will you be back for your dinner, sir?’ asked Peters shakily. I doubt I’ll be alive by dinner time, thought Morgan as he rushed towards the men’s lines.

  There, all was chaos. In the early, foggy light the troops ran to gather up their kit and clothes. Most were still attending to their weapons when the firing started, but some had stripped down to shirtsleeves whilst others were hopping about trying to get their sodden boots back on. Everyone except McGucken was struggling into their belts and equipment as shot after shot bounded through the lines of tents. Only the colour-sergeant was ready. In truth, he’d been too busy supervising rifle cleaning and breakfast after he returned from duty to look after his own needs, but that didn’t matter now. Like a slab of Scottish granite he strode amongst the men, encouraging here, admonishing there, issuing clear orders that restored the men’s confidence.

  ‘What d’you think, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Morgan asked as he galloped up.

  ‘Just like we said, sir, Russ saw that we’d done fuck-all after the last set-to an’ now he’s crept up in the mist and got a brace o’ batteries up there at least. I counted two volleys o’ twelve, sir, did you?’

  Morgan marvelled at the man. Whilst he’d been worrying about the smell on his breath and whether he’d see dinner time, McGucken had been counting the enemy’s guns as calmly as if he’d been on a field day at Chobham.

  ‘God’s teeth, sir, there’s another battery.’ More balls skipped through the gloom, though this time further off to their left, followed by a ripple of bangs. How McGucken could count them was quite beyond Morgan.

  ‘They’re firing blind through this fog, sir, but they’re making good practise.’

  ‘Indeed, they’d have got the range last time they fooled us,’ Morgan replied ruefully.

  ‘We’ve only got about half the old charges drawn, sir. Permission to break cartridge? In emergencies, rather than drawing the rounds with worms and ramrods, the NCOs would use the combination tools that they carried to unscrew the nipples at the breeches of the men’s rifles before pouring dry powder from a new cartridge over the damp charge. Then the nipples would be replaced before the rifle was re-cocked, a percussion cap fitted and fired. The theory was that the fresh powder would detonate the old charge and clear the barrel. Most of the time it worked, but the random discharges, especially in these confused circumstances, were dangerous and very unsettling.

  ‘Yes, of course, get on with it, Colour-Sar’nt, and lie the men down, they’ll be less vulnerable.’ Morgan could see that the process had already started, but McGucken had wanted to cover himself. As the ranks formed up and fell flat in rough lines, the occasional shot was already being fired into the heavens as rifles were cleared.

  ‘What in God’s name’s going on, Morgan?’ In the din he’d not noticed the rattle of the hospital wagon and the hooves of horses. Mary and Mrs Polley had come trotting up to their battle positions with Carmichael in close attendance. Mary stood up in the cab, scanning the mist. As she saw Morgan, the frown left her face, a half-formed wave dying even before she raised her hand.

  Carmichael swung down from the saddle of his gelding and passed his reins to the women, his face a combination of dislike and fear. In fresh, dry clothes the company commander was a stark contrast to the rest of them. As he approached, another Grenadier fired his rifle into the air to clear it, the sharp crack making him duck.

  ‘Take that man’s name, Colour-Sar’nt.’ He was visibly angry. ‘Sir, we’re having to clear the weapons by firing them.’ McGucken was just as cross.

  ‘Why, and who gave you permission to waste
cartridges like this?’ Even in the surrounding cacophony the two men’s furious voices carried to the troops around them.

  Morgan could see the men turning curious, worried faces to listen and watch. He knew how unsettling a scene like this amongst their leaders would be for the men who were frightened enough already, but before he could intervene, McGucken took matters into his own hands.

  ‘If you’d been up on the hill with us last night instead of chasing quim around the hospital lines, then you’d fuckin’ well know why we’re clearing the weapons, Mr Carmichael, sir!’

  Nearby soldiers became intensely interested in the fog as the Colour-Sergeant spat his reply.

  Morgan watched Carmichael closely. It was one thing for him to be insubordinate to Carmichael—although he’d been placed at the head of the company they were still the same rank—but for an NCO to speak to an officer like this was completely unacceptable. Already he was calculating which sergeant would take over once McGucken was sent to the rear under arrest—but to his amazement Carmichael folded like a pricked blister.

  All his overweening self-confidence suddenly disappeared; he seemed to shrink physically as he silently admitted defeat.

  ‘I s...see, Colour-Sergeant, you should have explained.’ His authority had gone: now he could hardly be heard above the gunfire.

  The adjutant’s arrival could not have been more timely. Like a cameo part in their own, domestic drama, McDonald cantered up on his charger, studiedly relaxed and apparently indifferent to the firing. ‘Carmichael, good morning to you. Would you oblige me and double your company up to the battalion’s right, as fast as you like?’ The Scot tightened his reins to stop his horses from fidgeting nervously. ‘Seems like we were right, Russ has tried the same trick again but this time mob-handed,’ he yelled against the noise.

  We? thought Morgan. He could only remember one lonely voice—his—pointing out the vulnerabilities of the Inkermann flank to the Brigade commander.