‘I’ll come straight to the point, the Ninety-Fifth are less than three hundred effectives and another dozen or so have been killed and injured during a bad session in the trenches last week. A captain and subaltern are hit.’
‘D’you know who, sir?’ interrupted Morgan, hoping it was no one he knew well but also seeing a chance for himself.
‘No, ‘fraid not. But it means that I’m going to send all twenty-three...’ James checked his figures, ‘...yes, twenty-three of the Ninety-Fifth that are here at the moment with you at their head. Here’s a boon, the regiment wants you back to command your old Company—you’re a Grenadier by the look of you—and you’ll fill a captain’s vacancy without purchase if you choose.’
‘Sir, I’ll bloody swim there if you want me to!’ Both men laughed at Morgan’s genuine delight.
‘I have to say, though, I wish they’d get a bloody move-on and take Sevastopol.’ Major James made it sound as though the slowness of the campaign had been intended to inconvenience him personally, to keep him away from grouse moor and trout stream. ‘Look here...’ James put on a pair of spectacles, shook another of Willaim Russell’s dispatches in The Times in Morgan’s face, ‘...they reckon that there’s tens of thousands of fresh French troops in the Crimea now and that our regiments are looking much better now that reinforcements are arriving—mind you, that’s the only bloody thanks I’ll get, from the papers, not from our Staff—and that if we looked as though Sevastopol would be assaulted soon, then the Austrians would weigh in on our side and Russ would have to give in, they should put me in charge,’ said James, removing his spectacles.
‘I’m sure we’d be very glad to have you with us,’ flattered Morgan. ‘Just one thing, sir; Colour-Sar’nt McGucken’s just out from England—he’s from my company and has been with me all the way through—can I take him with me?’
‘Just arrived, you say...not yet on my lists. But, if he’s well enough; daresay the Ninety-Fifth need every man they can get, but it’ll play the devil with my books. Still, take him anyway. You leave on tomorrow evening’s tide, I suspect you’ll be on the Bristol. Good luck, boy, thank you for all you’ve done here; I’ll write to your commanding officer and express my thanks, now don’t get killed and for pity’s sake, look after those lads.’ James smiled kindly as Morgan saluted and faced about, burning to tell McGucken the news.
The ‘swally or two’ multiplied many times over, especially when Morgan revealed that it was his birthday. A lame Sergeant from the 55th and another from the 20th with a great, scaly furrow through his left eyebrow joined them whilst the Tsar’s men were put to flight time and again.
McGucken was delighted with the young officer’s news, declaring himself ‘...fit to take Moscow wi’ one hand tied behind me,’ before excusing himself briefly to tell his orderly to get his kit together. Then he was back, laughing with savage mirth at the account of Pegg’s gobbing on Carmichael’s boots, in turn telling Morgan what little reliable news he had of the regiment whilst refilling the glasses and revelling in the fact that they were to be together again.
‘Mind you, sir, Mick Whaley—who’s been filling in for me these last months—is due promotion to another company and I hear good things of young Sergeant Keenan. You know he’s stayed with the Grenadiers, don’t you, sir?’ McGucken looked across the top of his glass, eyes narrowed quizzically.
‘I do, and I’m right glad of it,’ replied Morgan.
‘Are you, sir? You know you’ll have to settle that little business of yours pretty fucking quick now you’re to be in charge, don’t you, sir?’
‘I’m not sure I fully understand you, Colour-Sergeant,’ Morgan was almost convincing.
‘Yes you do, sir. We all turned a blind eye with Sergeant Keenan away an’ everyone distracted by that arse Carmichael, but it won’t answer now.’ McGucken fixed him with a glare every bit as uncompromising as his father’s. ‘I know what went on back in Ireland, but do yourself and us all a favour an’ drop the lassie, sir. She’s Keenan’s now an’ we need a company commander that the men can look up to.’
Morgan was getting used to such advice, not that he liked it. He drained his glass and nodded, it was so much easier than trying to argue.
‘By God, sir, you’ve a drooth on you, ain’t you?’ McGucken had watched as Morgan’s glass was emptied much too quickly for his liking. ‘An’ that’s another thing, sir, please stop drinking so bloody much.’
TWELVE
The Raid
Balaklava stank so much worse in the spring than it had in the winter. The harbour was just as crowded with ships and people, the water just as foul as Morgan remembered it, but the smell was now indescribable. Things weren’t helped by having to hang around on deck for more than two hours whilst the Captain found a berth as the putrid, scummy water lapped around them.
‘I see Peters is waiting for you there, sir, I’ll march the draft up to the new camp, d’you know where it is?’ McGucken had got the replacements packed and ready to disembark in plenty of time. Now they sat about the deck in their new red jackets and caps, their blankets rolled neatly on top of freshly-issued knapsacks, well-blacked boots and whitened belts, just as if they were about to go on parade.
Morgan looked at them as they read, played cards and smoked, basking in the sunshine on the freshly cleaned-decks. There were some old hands amongst them who’d recovered from wounds or disease, but they were mostly lads straight from the slums who’d been drawn to the war either through a sense of adventure or for the bounty if they were already serving in the militia. They were terribly young and new—just like he and the others had been before their first taste of war.
‘I don’t, Colour-Sar’nt. Come ashore with me and Peters will tell us, I’ve no doubt.’ The pair stumbled down an uncomfortably steep gang-plank, Pat the dog at their heels, to find Morgan’s servant waiting with three ponies, two to ride and one for the baggage.
‘Hello, Captain Morgan, sir, hello Colour-Sar’nt, welcome back, you’ve brought the sun wi’ you.’ Peters smiled at both of them, saluting as smartly as the multitude of reins would let him whilst emphasizing Morgan’s new rank.
‘Hello, Peters...’ Morgan shook his hand, ‘...quieter than when we saw each other last.’
The officer remembered how his batman had quavered after him in his flat Preston accent demanding to know what time he would be back for dinner as the balls skipped about their tents on that foggy, Inkermann morning.
‘Yes, sir, but it don’t ‘alf gong ‘ere don’t it? I’ll just go an’ get yer kit an’ yours, Colour-Sar’nt?’ Smaller and thinner than most soldiers, Peters was muddy but as smartly dressed as could be expected on campaign.
He was certainly a contrast to half a dozen hairy things in dun-coloured smocks and greasy belts who came hooting and laughing down the quay, puffing at pipes, trousers and boots crusted with mud, rifles slung anyhow. They gaggled past Morgan and McGucken, ignoring them completely.
‘Stand still, yous!’ McGucken had been unusually placid on the trip from Malta. When one of the new men had got dreadfully drunk in Scutari, he’d been almost paternal to him; when, during an inspection, he’d found rust on a rifle-lock he’d all but laughed it off; but this was too much. Even in the clamour of the harbour his voice petrified the party. ‘Who’s in charge of you clowns?’ All McGucken’s professional senses were outraged by this mob. He threw his chin out pugnaciously, positively brandishing the gold-lace chevrons and flag on his arms.
‘Me, Colours...’ A muddy wretch had pulled himself to a semblance of the position of attention but wasn’t allowed to finish.
‘‘Colours’... ‘Colours’...I’ll give you bloody ‘Colours’, it’s Colour-Sergeant to the like of yous.’ McGucken bristled; ‘Marines, I guess, though you wouldn’t fuckin’ know it! How dare you pass an officer without saluting? Now get into a squad and try to look like soldiers—well, Marines anyway.’
The humbled little gang shuffled into two ranks and their non-commissioned officer wobb
led a compliment before marching them off as quickly as possible to get out of McGucken’s range.
‘Christ, Colour-Sergeant, if even the Royals have got into a state like that, maybe everything the papers have been saying is true.’ Morgan looked about the harbour. Certainly, there was plenty of evidence here of the chaos that the broadsheets had been reporting.
‘I’ll ride up to the regiment and make sure they’re expecting you, gennelmen,’ said McGucken before he saluted and rode away.
Peters and Morgan mounted and set off across the muddy quay, the baggage pony trotting quietly behind.
With Pat across his master’s saddle-bow, they rode out of the harbour past great piles of stores and ammunition. Bales of clothing, tents and blankets lay soaked by rain and grimed with mud whilst they passed at least three commissariat wagons that had been abandoned in ditches beside the road.
‘There ain’t much wrong with that wagon, Peters, nothing that a wheelwright couldn’t put straight, anyway.’ They both looked down at a cart with a broken rear wheel.
‘There in’t, sir, it’s just that no one seems to bother with things like they used to. Truth is, sir, this road ain’t too bad now that the sun’s dried it out, but in t’winter it were feet deep in mud. Made gettin’ things repaired very difficult an’ people just gave up, like.’
Morgan could see what his batman meant as they wound out of the valley, up the Col Road and onto the great, flat Sapoune plateau. Horse and mule skeletons peeped from the earth, here and there piles of shapeless canvas had been abandoned, there were broken bottles everywhere that threatened to cut their horses’ hooves and litter blew about promiscuously. Most tellingly, though, every living horse that they saw was badly out of condition. Charabancs full of navvies were pulled by wretched, thin nags and even the mounts of a patrol of the 4th Light Dragoons had dull, patchy coats and gnawed tails.
Peters prattled about the winter; how in January the regiment had been down to one officer and a hundred and fifty men, the rest all sick or injured; how Russ seemed as ‘happy as a corn-fed rat’ and as cocky as ever; and how the reinforcements were ‘nowt but kids an’ soft as grease’. Morgan let it all drift over him, shivering slightly when he heard the first boom of the heavy siege pieces, before getting used to the irregular drumming of the guns and the replies of the Russians from besieged Sevastopol.
They meandered past the regiment’s old camp near Inkermann—the French had now taken over that sector as the British were too weak to man it—and on to the lines of new wooden huts that the 95th had just occupied.
‘Well, Peters, this looks a damn sight better than those leaky old tents.’ The huts were so new that the troops hadn’t yet been able to dirty the paint-work and, in any event, the regiment was still so below strength that many of them weren’t occupied.
‘They’re grand, sir, but we needed them four months ago, not now that the weather’s improved. Any road, I’ve boxed-up Captain Davidson-Smith’s kit an’ sent it ‘ome an’ you get the whole hut for yourself now, sir.’
As they trotted past the guard-room, two young soldiers passed, bringing their rifles to the shoulder and tapping their slings in unison. In their caps sat the brass badge of the Grenadier Company.
‘Hello, you two...’ Morgan recognized neither, but he grinned down at them, trying to ingrain their faces on his memory, ‘...what are your names, lads? I’m your new Company Commander, Captain Morgan.’
‘Cooper, sir.’
‘Langham, sir.’ They flickered their eyes up to meet Morgan’s, but with no smile, no enthusiasm.
There was something about them that worried Morgan. In most circumstances he would have dismounted and spoken to any soldier, no matter whether they were his or not, but they had both radiated such a lack of interest in him that he thought better of it. Were these two undergoing punishment and in some sort of sulk, or did they reflect the attitude of the whole company? The last thing he and McGucken needed in the fighting that lay ahead was listlessness like this.
‘Ere you. are, sir...’ Peters showed him into his spartan accommodation, ‘...adjutant says how the commanding officer would like to see you soonest, sir. I’ll get some hot water for you to wash, then I’ll show you to t’orderly room.’
Morgan had thought long and hard about the responsibilities of commanding a company. Now he would be in charge, there would be no one to turn to in the heat of battle and all those men would look to him and him alone for leadership and inspiration. But until he’d met those two lads on his way into camp the reality had been very distant. Pensively, he scraped some of the mud and horse muck off his boots whilst the guns rattled the glass in the windows of his hut.
***
‘Have a seat, Morgan, I’m extremely glad to have you back.’ After last year’s battles and the trials of the winter, Major Hume might have confidently expected promotion to lieutenant-colonel, but no, he had to content himself with flattering mentions in his superiors’ dispatches and the fact that he was still drawing breath. Now he sat as trim and spry as Morgan remembered him, his hair and beard showing just a tinge of grey, but his eyes as alive as ever. ‘Sorry I had to pull you back from Malta before your leg’s fully recovered, but Davidson-Smith’s getting himself wounded gave me no choice: anyway, I’d sooner see you have that captaincy than anyone else, you deserve it.’ Hume wasted not a word.
‘The regiment’s being reinforced slowly but we’re still less than four hundred strong: despite this, Brigade expect us to cover the duties of a battalion twice the size. That means that trench duty comes round incessantly and the men are suffering.’
Hume paused, sucking a pencil briefly before he continued. ‘You won’t recognize the Grenadier Company—what there are of them. Sergeant Whaley has done wonders acting as Davidson-Smith’s colour-sergeant, but he’s to be moved on promotion and McGucken is perfect to support you when we assault Sevastopol—and that must be soon. And you’re not to breathe a word of it, but he’s been put up for a Distinguished Conduct Medal for Inkermann.’ Hume watched Morgan’s reaction.
‘The thing that worries me about the Grenadiers, though, is their morale. You remember how they were last year, even after Eddington was killed and then that fool Carmichael took over?’
How could Morgan forget that happy bunch? How could he forget the bonds of shared experience, danger and hardship, the willing sacrifice and selflessness of almost every man? Seeing those two Grenadiers earlier had made him wonder: would he and McGucken be able to recreate all that?
‘Well, they’ve been ridden hard and they’ve taken more than their share of casualties and they’re...they’re tired and just off form. There’s some good non-commissioned officers—Sergeant Keenan’s doing particularly well—but things aren’t quite right. They’re in the line at the moment under, God help us, young Parkinson. You and McGucken can take them over tonight after dark: take your reinforcements with you, they might as well be blooded.’ Hume had no more time for pleasantries. ‘Oh, one more thing Morgan, I want the company to push the Russians out of some forward positions they’ve established, here.’ He pointed to a spot on the map spread out on the desk in front of him. ‘The adjutant and I will come up to brief you the day after tomorrow. Now please go to work and get a grip of the Grenadiers.’
***
How could he have wanted to be back here? As the four reinforcements followed him, McGucken at their backs, through the flashes and bangs that decorated the darkness, Morgan wondered at his own eagerness. The pull he took at his flask as he waited outside his hut and allowed his eyes to adapt to the night had helped, but when the guide at the start of the parallel challenged, ‘Carrot,’ he jumped visibly.
‘Stick...’ he replied, ‘...officer and five Grenadiers, Ninety-Fifth.’
‘Eh-up, sir, it’s me.’ A round form emerged from the dark, a furry jerkin over his greatcoat, despite the spring night.
Morgan didn’t recognize the guide at all—but there was something about the blunt acce
nt, something about the familiar mix of onions and rum on his breath.
‘Pegg, is that you?’
‘Lance-Corporal Pegg, if you don’t mind, Captain Morgan, sir.’
‘Lance-Corporal Pegg’ mused Morgan. ‘Well, things had come to a pass if eighteen-year-olds were wearing tapes. Still, the boy had more experience than most and he was doing his duty when many weren’t.’
‘Did you bring that grog I asked you for, sir?’ grinned Pegg.
But before Morgan could reply, McGucken broke in, whispering coarsely in the gloom, ‘Corporal Pegg, shut yer grid an’ just get us to the Company, will you?’
‘Hello, Colour-Sar’nt, it’s wonderful to see you too. Coom on, then, sap gets a bit deeper round the corner, then it’s about five ‘undred yards. We’ll ‘ave to pass through Number Three Company on the way, but Russ ain’t close ‘til we gets up to our position. Can you keep these kids from doing any harm to theirsens, Colour-Sar’nt?’ said Pegg.
Morgan wondered at the lad’s confidence and his sneering tone with the reinforcements, most of whom were older than he was, but he was soon distracted by a howitzer shell that whirred way overhead. Its fiery fuse showed clear in the night sky, yet it was all he could do not to duck down into a corner of the trench—Pegg, meanwhile, just ignored it.
They wove and ducked, jumped over water-filled sumps, had their nostrils filled with the smell of sweat, cooking and shit, froze when star-shells fizzed above them, pushed past the sleepers on the fire-step whilst trying not to wake them and snagged their clothes on every revetment, post and nail they passed before they came to their own company. Like the neighbours in Number Three Company, most of the Grenadiers were fast asleep, wrapped in blankets and oilskin sheets, every tenth man alert on sentry, peering over the parapet at the Russian lines, their breath hanging in the moonlight.
Pegg took the party up to the dugout that served as company headquarters. A larger pit had been excavated in the side of the trench that faced the enemy with earth-packed gabions placed in a semi-circle around the lip. In the middle of the floor a miniature brazier glowed red, throwing a soft light onto the three figures who were clustered around it. One man was tinkering with a kettle, the other two were sitting on ammunition boxes trying to read a document by the beams of a storm lantern. All three wore greatcoats, the skirts of which had been roughly hewn off to prevent the mud from clinging there. Morgan had already noticed that the men who had been through the worst of the winter months clung to these threadbare coats like a badge of honour, despite new ones being available. But then, he remembered how proud he’d been of his own bayonet-torn coat last year—and how it had rankled with Carmichael.
To Do and Die Page 29