All in all, the spectacle resembled a gay pageant rather than a military enterprise. The women, some of them in the company of their children, sang happy songs of valour. Amongst them, men dressed in civilian clothing wanted to go along just for the experience.
Three hundred and sixty ships waited for this vast army with hangers-on at the ports of London and Portsmouth. They would sail in seven columns with steamers towing two sailing ships. They would rendezvous with the French fleet at the Bay of Biscay and later at the port of Toulouse. From there, the combined allied navies would sail east to Constantinople. Once there and after having replenished supplies, the voyage would continue into the Black Sea and on to the Crimea.
From the balcony of Buckingham Palace, Queen Victoria, Prince Albert and four of their children also got up early to watch the parade march past, on their way to fight the Russians in the Crimea. The queen had used her personal influence in pressing the government to halt Russia’s expansionist plans against the crumbling Ottoman Empire in the east – plans that might eventually pose a threat to British dominions in India. Victoria was fanatical in her support for the war. She was filled with ‘atavistic longings to don shining armour’ and fight alongside her brave guardsmen, and had ensured all the women in court did their bit.
Apart from sending personal food parcels of beef, tea, raspberry jam and tins of tobacco to the ships, she had every woman at Windsor turning out mitts and mufflers. But the queen was not alone in wishing she could be with the troops. Thousands of wives also wanted to accompany their husbands.
Rory and Jake rode side-by-side in the midst of the 11th Hussars. Both of them were stunned and for the first time in their lives, they felt pride at being a part of something that was larger than they were. Women blew them kisses from the side-lines. Children waved flags. Some of them sat on their fathers’ shoulders yelling and fidgeting. When Buckingham Palace finally came into view, both men gulped simultaneously when they saw the queen and her family displaying the same enthusiasm as her subjects.
“We sure are heroes now, eh, Rory?” said Jake. After he had spoken, his mouth dropped into the position it had been in for most of the ride over from the barracks.
“Aye, that we are. I have never seen the likes. All of London believes we are the bee’s knees.”
Rory felt a subtle current of exhilaration course through him, but he ached for his wife and children. The sight of Mary when he had left stuck in his mind like sap from a tree. She had begged him to reconsider. Once more, she had told him about the job her ladyship offered and how much safer the tending of horses would be. Rory had resisted all of her efforts. His sense of duty was too great – he would never leave Jake and the comrades he had come to respect and, to a certain extent love, without at least adding his muscle. His visit to the country had been far too brief. He would be gone soon. Not knowing whether he would ever come back ate at his heart like a malignant cancer.
“Who would have thought that the likes of us would be riding a fine horse in front of the Queen of England and Great Britain?” Jake shook his head in amazement.
“Me, never. Back at the docks, I didn’t know the front of one to the back of one.”
Jake hooted laughter. “All they were, was pack animals to us and now we are the load they carry.”
“Easy does it, gentlemen. You are in the 11th Hussars now and not members of a troop of drunken louts like I found ye,” said the Sergeant who had recruited them. “Eyes to the right,” he yelled when the brigade past the queen’s position.
All heads snapped to the right in concert. In the vanguard, Lord Cardigan seemed to inflate into greater proportions, stretching his whalebone corset to the limit. With him rode Stirling and Royce amongst a coterie of their fellow officers. It was the proudest day of their lives. However, for both of them the hardest moment was yet to come.
“Come back to me safely, Stirling. I will never forgive you if you end up dead,” said Clementine, holding onto her fiancé as if dear life depended on it.
He chuckled. “I promise that I will, my love.” He planted a kiss onto her forehead.
Clementine grinned up at him. “Is that all I get? God only knows for how long we will be apart and all you have got for me is a chaste peck?”
“You are ravenous, my love,” chided Stirling, looking about him furtively.
Before he could do anything, Clementine crushed her lips against his in a complete break from Victorian virtue. Stirling was completely taken aback when her tongue invaded his mouth with vigorous strokes. He could do nothing about it as his body took over with primal force. They kissed hungrily like two people who might never see each other again.
The built-up tension of the parade earlier that day, the train voyage that had taken place for the larger part in silence, and now, the wharf at Portsmouth that was lined with fellow well wishers struck a chord of deep longing. It was something that not even a kiss could assuage. What was needed was more – love – the connection that could only be conveyed with the heart and body in hot pursuit.
Loud whistles and catcalls from the soldiers already on board ship reminded them where they were. They peered down on them like a gathering of crows on a branch.
“Steady on, guv” yelled one of them.
“Leave something for when you get back. You will kiss the lass again,” cried another.
Clementine pulled away. Her face was as scarlet as Stirling’s breeches. If he was a “Cherrybum”, then she was a “Cherryface”. She pressed her lips together as she scanned the sides of the steamer on the dock. The soldiers waved at her, shouting pledges to take care of the officer.
“Leave it up to us, milady. We will look after him for ye.”
“There’s a good man that.”
“Nothing will happen to the likes of him. Major Whit Whittaker looks after his own,” shouted Rory who had finally found out Stirling’s name after he had been so kind to him.
“He taught us how to ride.”
“And well, he did.”
Clementine was taken aback by the affection the rank and file displayed for her beau. She had no way of knowing just how much effort Stirling had put into the men’s drill. After his initial introduction to Lord Cardigan’s archaic and brutal regimen, he had adopted what he knew best: he had taught the men how to ride by showing them how to bond with their steeds rather than dominate them.
In the shortest of time, the newly minted hussars of the eleventh were galloping over the training ground yelling boohaloo with the officers. Even Lord Cardigan had managed to commend the young officer for his aptitude.
“You are much beloved, Stirling,” said Clementine, looking into his eyes sweetly. “The men do respect you.”
“Oh, it is nothing. I did what any officer would. Those lads up there are what will make or break us when the shooting starts.”
“You are far too modest, Major.” Clementine’s blush never left her face when she saw him smirk.
“As long as I am beloved by you, then all is well.”
“That you are, darling fiancé.”
When one of the naval officers shouted that it was time to finish up with the goodbyes, Clementine shuddered. Hearing the toot of the ships, she couldn’t let go of him. It was far too final. The notion of never feeling his touch again, all consuming. Holding his hand like she did was all she had. She didn’t want to relinquish the budding happiness she had only recently found to let go of it again so soon. Yet, she knew that she must.
Stirling depended on her to show strength, Florence Nightingale depended on her to do her duty and her colleagues in the corps would need her support when the time came. Clementine would never let any of them down and most of all Nightingale because she had still endorsed her joining the corps despite her being under the required age of twenty-three.
“We will be together soon. It won’t be long until the nurses are sent after you,” she said at last, forcing the tears from her eyes.
“Let us hope that day never come
s, Clementine. I’d rather not see you for three years than see you sooner, for then I will know that I have been wounded in battle.” Stirling shrugged. “And there is no way of knowing whether my injuries will be light or not, should that ever arise.”
Clementine nodded. What he had said made sense. She too never wanted to see him in the inside of a hospital. She would rather have him dashing about on his horse, Cloud, slaying the Russians any day.
“It is time, my love. I must go. I will write to you every day and pray that this…” Stirling waved his hand over the docks. “Won’t keep me apart from you for all too long.”
“And I will write to you, darling Stirling. Be careful, I beseech you.”
He chuckled. “I will be as careful as any soldier can.” He kissed her on the lips and turned away.
Clementine watched Stirling mount the boardwalk up to the waiting steamer. When he reached the top of the walkway, he bowed briefly to wave before he vanished inside of the ship. His disappearance from view made her swallow deeply. Elizabeth stood next to her on the quay. Her comportment was not as sanguine. Heavy bulbous tears streaked down her cheeks in a blatant display of her melancholy.
The shouts of “God save the Queen” all around them and the singing of the national anthem did nothing to add any gaiety to the event. Clementine did her best to remain stoic. Her eyes scanned the lines of the ship in the hope that she might catch another glimpse of the man she loved. As another cacophonous tootle erupted as hot steam shot from the ship’s steam whistle, she caught sight of Stirling looking down at her.
As he waved, Clementine mouthed the words, “I love you dearest Stirling. Don’t be long for I don’t know whether I can live this life without you by my side.”
Chapter 24
From the moment they stepped off the ship into the rushing surf by the beach, it was clear to Stirling and Royce they would endure terrible suffering in the months to come. The sweltering heat was unbearable and the surrounding countryside harsh. It made Stirling think of the magical day he had spent with Clementine on the banks of the Thames prior to their departure. They were two different worlds. Lush green, undulating hills speared through by the waterway of the Thames had been replaced by what lay before him.
At first, his environ had appeared to be very hospitable because of the sandy beach and the silent advent of the waves crashing on the sand. There had not been a cloud in the sky and the sun had shone with careful strokes on the day they arrived.
The entire atmosphere had been one of excitement and adventure. Songs had been sung and tales of victory told. The men had exchanged heady banter, impervious to the harsh commands of their sergeants. If Stirling didn’t think too much about his circumstance, it might seem that he was in Blackpool or Poole, strolling over the sand with the woman he loved.
Yet, the blatant contrast was too potent. Mountains towered above them - sometimes reaching up to heights of five thousand feet - dominated the whole coastline. The massif stretched from the coast to about fifty miles inland that to some might contain some very pristine untouched nature.
The mountains formed by ragged limestone had been shaped into high peaks with canyons, cliffs and valleys transecting them in all directions. Judging by the maps he had seen during the voyage, the area had numerous caves as well as small lakes. There were almost no marked trails.
The voyage over from England, on board ship, had been testing to say the least. The civilians that accompanied them had born the brunt of the hardships. The army had taken them under sufferance and many of the women and children had been kept below decks for the entire voyage so as not to disrupt naval operations.
For the duration of the passage across the length of the Mediterranean, the sea had been calm. This had all changed upon entering the Black Sea. A vile tempest had battered the ships, scattering them in all directions. It had taken days for the fleet to reassemble off the coast of the Crimea.
In the older vessels, there was no escaping the dark, damp, airless atmosphere, which stank of sweat and vomit. Nor was it possible to stand upright in such confined spaces. Some women had been so prostrated by constant retching that they had lain on the soaking-wet floors of their cabins. The children had screamed and the horses had whickered. After the storm, countless equine carcasses had been hurled overboard as the animals were not in favour of sea travel.
During the voyage, many women had turned back. Others, frantic for food and shelter which the army seldom provided, abandoned their regiments long before they got to the Crimean Peninsula, to fend for themselves in the filthy alleys of Constantinople or in Scutari on the shores of the Black Sea.
In Scutari, where they finally found lodging in the huge army barracks, many of the women were by then so brutalised by army life that they turned to drink. The more enterprising went into prostitution. Yet, instead of putting them to good use as cooks, laundresses or nurses, the army had cussedly refused to incorporate these desperate wives into regimental life.
It was the fourth and final day of the landing of all of the troops, the stores, equipment, horses and artillery. All around Stirling, the industriousness of the soldiers told a story of the men’s willingness to do their bit for queen and country. The Crimean campaign had opened upon anchoring five days before on the 13th of September in the bay of Eupatoria. The town had surrendered and five hundred marines had landed to occupy it. The town and bay provided a fallback position in the case of disaster. A circumstance many believed possible on the fifth day since their arrival.
The ships had then sailed east to make the landing of the allied expeditionary force on the sandy beaches of Calamita Bay on the south west coast of the Crimean Peninsula. The name was aptly suited as it also meant “Calamity Bay”. The landing had surprised the Russians, as they had been expecting a landing at Katcha, the last-minute change proving that Russia had known the original battle plan.
The landing of over fifty thousand allied troops was north of Sevastopol. In response, the Russians had arrayed their army close by in expectation of a direct attack.
“Do you think Lord Raglan will order the assault today?” asked Royce who rode on his horse next to Stirling.
“Well, we have advanced all the way to the Alma River and look…there they are.” Stirling pointed ahead to the array of glinting muskets and neatly positioned men in grey uniforms before them.
“I suppose this is it.”
Stirling nodded. “I suppose so. I wonder whether his lordship will find use for the cavalry today?”
“Judging by the lay of the land, this is going to be an infantry operation.”
“Look at you – the able general.”
Royce chuckled. “Well, I did learn a few things at Sandhurst, you know.”
The sound of trumpets heralded the making of camp. On cue, a frenzy of activity took a hold as the men ran this way and that, dispensing the pack animals of their heavy cargos.
“It appears we attack on the morrow, my friend,” said Stirling, watching Lord Cardigan who had arrived on the peninsula on his private yacht with a coterie of civilians, ride away from his vantage point on a knoll overlooking the enemy army.
The Russian position had been strong. So confident of this fact was the Russian commander, Prince Alexander Menshikov, that he had set up a grandstand from where Russian gentlemen and ladies could observe his supposed victory through their opera glasses. Sitting across the plain were the allied spectators. The entire spectacle was like an outing to Ascot to watch the horse races. Men and women in their finest clothing partook in tasty delicacies of finger sandwiches and glasses of champagne.
However, after three hours, the allied frontal attack had driven the enemy out of their dug-in positions with losses of six thousand men. The Battle of Alma had claimed over three thousand allied casualties. After that, the allies had failed to pursue the retreating enemy forces. It was a strategic error to Stirling’s mind. Had they advanced, he was certain that they would have easily captured Sevastopol that very
same day.
The Russian retreat had become a rout and Lord Raglan had sought permission to pursue them. Had the French allies followed his advice, they might have taken Sevastopol by surprise. However, General St. Arnaud, the commander of the French force, had decided this was impossible for his French troops had left their packs at their starting points across the river and would have to go back for them before further advances could be made. Furthermore, unlike the British, the French had no cavalry with which to give chase.
Adding to this, and convincing certain allied commanders of the need not to follow the Russians, was the enemy’s decision to blow up and scuttle their own navy across the opening of the harbour of Sevastopol. Realizing that their fleet could not match that of the allies in speed or gunpowder, the Russians had made this bold decision to prevent the allies from entering the harbour.
A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events Page 18