A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events

by Hanna Hamilton

  He looked around and saw Royce whose face was as white as a sheet. A little further afield, Stirling perceived the body belonging to the dead trooper that had somehow kept in the saddle. For a heartbeat, he hoped that he still might be alive. He watched his former comrade ride with them for another thirty yards until his mount veered off to the right and the lifeless body fell to the ground.

  After another three hundred yards the batteries of Russian horse artillery opened fire. There were no jubilant shouts of Hussar or attack, just silence. Not a soul in the Light Brigade said a word as the 11th Regiment of Hussars gradually broke from a trot into a canter.

  As the barrage became more intense, the noise of the striking of men and horses by grape and round shot was deafening, while the dust and gravel struck up by the round shot that fell short was almost blinding.

  Stirling had trouble controlling his horse. It was so bad that he could scarcely hold him at all. But as he got nearer, he could see plainly enough through the smoke, especially when he was about a hundred yards from the guns. He swallowed nervously because he seemed to be riding straight on to the muzzle of one of the guns.

  At that moment, he clearly saw the Russian gunner’s determined face as he applied the fuse to the cannon. Stirling shut his eyes. In that instant, he thought that his life was forfeit and that he would never see his Clementine again. But the shot just missed him by the breadth of a hair, striking the man on his right full in the chest. Looking again, Stirling saw that Royce was no longer riding with him.

  In another minute, Stirling who was riding alongside Lord Cardigan in the vanguard was on the gun and the leading Russian's grey horse. The Russian shot with a pistol but his aim was not true as the musket ball whizzed passed Stirling’s head. A heartbeat later, another man received a ball straight to the chest and fell across Stirling’s horse, dragging it to the left with his weight.

  To his surprise, Stirling still held onto the reigns of his mount. That was when he saw a Russian gunner, on foot, with his carbine at the ready. Fortunately, he was just within reach of Stirling’s sword, and he struck him across his neck. The blow severed his windpipe, and he fell down with a wheeze and a gurgle until he came to a rest in an untidy heap.

  Spurring his horse further still, Stirling half jumped, half blundered, over the fallen animals and guns. It was so loud and there was so much smoke that he felt he was riding inside the mouth of a volcano. The dead and wounded were everywhere; it was a miracle he was still alive.

  That was when it happened. A carbine shot hit Stirling’s horse, and he flew out of the saddle and landed on the dry and dusty ground. The last thing Stirling saw was an apparition of Clementine and then darkness as the sweet lines of her face disappeared into nothingness.

  The British ranks looking on from the hilltops and to the rear were silent as the last Russian gun, shot its lethal charge. The civilian spectators exchanged nervous glances. The general staff tried to remain stoic in the face of such carnage. Yet, the words, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, would one day compose hung over the field of Balaclava like a wraith.

  Half a league, half a league,

  Half a league onward,

  All in the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred.

  “Forward, the Light Brigade!

  Charge for the guns!” he said.

  Into the valley of Death

  Rode the six hundred…

  …When can their glory fade?

  O the wild charge they made!

  All the world wondered.

  Honour the charge they made!

  Honour the Light Brigade,

  Noble six hundred!

  Chapter 27

  Lo! in that house of misery

  A lady with a lamp I see

  Pass through the glimmering gloom,

  And flit from room to room.

  A small light flickered through the hallways. A slender form passed the doorways leading to the various dormitories where the men slept. Occasionally, she would tend to a patient when he stirred in his sleep, waking up either in pain or in fright. When they heard her voice, the sick or wounded man would invariably slump back down onto the bed and resume sleeping. Others would utter thanks to the Angel of the Crimea or the Lady of the Lamp as many now called her.

  It had been relatively quiet at the Scutari Hospital as of late. There had been far less new admittances. Ever since the high influx after the Battle of Alma, the flow of wounded had decreased to a trickle. This delivered false hope as the local sickbays close to the hostilities burst at the seams. The allied high command had deemed it more effective to ship the casualties deemed too far-gone in bulk.

  Florence knew this was not going to last. Rumours had reached her that the allied army had planned and started a major offensive a few weeks ago. The beginning of the action had been a fiasco. Rumours abounded that the illustrious Light Brigade had been involved, albeit partially unsuccessfully.

  The enemy had countered with a major offensive at the beginning of November. It would be a few more days, at the most a week until the next ships arrived with their cargos of injured men. And when they did, she and her corps of nurses would have their hands full once again.

  Clementine had fallen asleep at her desk the night before. It was her third week at the Scutari Hospital. Most nights, she tried to stay up with Florence but the strain of supporting the chief nurse, keeping everything clean from the rooms to the clothing to the sheets and constantly maintaining a happy disposition had gotten to her in the end. Her superior had let her rest. Florence was indefatigable.

  “There is a new influx of wounded fresh from the Crimea coming from the docks. I want everyone at their stations.”

  Nightingale whooshed through the infirmary with her customary zeal. Despite not having slept a wink, she was full of energy and purpose. The work of the nurses had been continuous. The vast space had to be kept clean, men tended to and new plans made. The latter involved Florence’s endless striving for improvement. Work she meticulously wrote down in her journal. These words would one day form the basis of her later endeavours.

  Clementine worried again. Every time she heard the words “new arrivals”, her heart lurched up her throat. One of the suffering men could be Stirling or her sister’s Royce. The thought always stuck to her until she had inspected every man and read the list with the names of the hurt. So far, she had been fortunate – she had never read either of their names on those fateful papers with the string of names filling them from top to bottom.

  It made her feel bad to rejoice when there was still so much death. It was one of the sick fallacies of life – people felt happy when a loved one was safe no matter the cost to others. Clementine tried to convince herself that feeling this was not immoral but often she had cried when she thought of the mothers, sisters and wives who had lost a son, brother or husband.

  Noticing her keen ability, Florence had kept Clementine in the operating theatre when necessary because she had a cool head and was incredibly resilient in the face of the ugly scenes that took place there. When the frenzy died down, she was then placed in charge of the hardened cases when the soldier or officer involved suffered from psychological trauma as well as physical.

  She soon took up her position next to Major Hodges in the operating theatre. The room was scrubbed clean twice daily. So much so that one could almost eat off the floor. All of the accoutrements needed for an operation had been sterilized in alcohol; the doctor and nurses’ clothing had been boiled in water. Everything was as it should be. However, the quietness and cleanliness would soon come to an end when the injured arrived.

  Clementine knew a very tiring time lay ahead of her. Not so much due to the work because she was used to it, but because of the worry. Each time a man was brought in, it could be Stirling. She didn’t know what she would do if he would be the one carted in on a stretcher one day.

  “Positions, ladies and gentlemen. The first of them are here. HMS Hornet from the Crimea has just landed an
d more are yet to arrive,” said Florence, appearing again as if out of nowhere. “I just had a chat with the Second Lieutenant from the ship, and he assures me the Russians had it worse than we did. Nonetheless, more than three thousand of our brave countrymen will be passing through here one way or another.”

  “What happened?” asked Major Hodges.

  “There have been two battles – one at Balaclava and the other at Inkerman. The latter was by far the worst in terms of casualties,” answered Florence. “As usual, our fellow compatriots suffer from illness more than from their injuries. The Crimea is ripe with disease.”

  “Any news on the cavalry?” Clementine could not help butting in.

  She received a scowl from Florence. “I don’t know. I have no information on the individual units involved.”

  When the Turkish porters ran into the theatre, the conversation came to an abrupt end. The first of the victims was a Highlander. Clementine saw it from the tartan he sported on his person and the way he did not utter a word. He was obviously in pain, and yet, he behaved stoically despite of it.

  He was a big stocky man. Clementine saw that he had a leg injury that had been badly stitched by the medical orderly at the front. Yet, it had not festered. On his head, there was more crusted blood. She assumed that this man, who surely preferred the stability of land, had suffered more due his transport over the sea.

  During her time at the Scutari Hospital, Clementine had come to learn that these men from Scotland, particularly north of Inverness, could be considered almost super-human. They did not suffer as normal men did – the English had seen this early on during the many skirmishes that had taken place between the two peoples.

  The Highlanders of Scotland were a group of people noted for their incredible strength, size, health, endurance, vitality, and prowess in battle. Back then during the Jacobite uprisings and before, they had been armed only with swords and small shields. With these armaments, they had consistently defeated much larger armies of professional soldiers armed with guns and cannon.

  Only because of the English’s overwhelming numbers and superior technology were they finally defeated. Afterwards, they were recruited by their conquerors, winning victories for them all over the world.

  Sadly, while most of the men were away fighting for the British Empire, their families were eventually driven off their land and out of their country, to accommodate the demands of industrial agriculture. Many had emigrated to the colonies or the United States of America for a better life.

  What was the secret of the Highlanders’ prowess? Why were they larger, stronger, faster, and able to defeat superior groups of enemies in hand-to-hand combat? What gave them their incredible endurance, which enabled them to march sixty miles over steep roadless hills and fight a battle - all in one day? Why did they recover from horrible wounds that would have been fatal to most other men?

  The Highlands of Scotland were a high land, full of hills, mountains, streams, myths and valleys. The soil was not very good for agriculture, but provided great grazing lands and birthed powerful men.

  The Highlanders based their diet, first, on the raw milk of their herds. They kept large herds of small, agile cattle, and large flocks of tiny sheep, and large herds of goats. All of these animals produced milk, which was drunk and added to porridges raw, and made into raw cheese and raw butter.

  The Highlanders strength was derived from their diet, which included wild game of all kinds. Fresh fish was a vital part of their diet, as the many rivers and streams were rich with salmon and many other kinds of wild fish where they came from.

  However, their main staple food was oats. They mixed them with water and salt, occasionally adding a tot of whiskey or two to create porridge. This concoction had nearly every necessary vitamin the human body required.

  As could be seen at the recent Battle of Balaclava, a Highland line was virtually unbreakable. Before that, these men had already proven their metal during the Battle of Assaye in British India.

  Under the overall command of Arthur Wellesley, later the Duke Wellington, the five hundred men of the 78th Highlanders had led the attack. They had marched in a thin, straight, red line, directly at the enemy artillery. Cannonballs had ripped off limbs and cut the Scottish warriors in half. Yet, they marched forward undeterred. Thousands of small musket balls, known as grapeshot, were fired from the cannons at close range, shredding many Highlanders.

  And still, they marched on. The ten thousand strong force of enemy veterans, European-trained infantry stationed just behind the artillery, had watched in disbelief as the 78th kept coming, despite heavy losses, marching right into the deadly fire of the cannons.

  At fifty yards, the 78th had raised their muskets, and fired a single deadly volley right into the artillerymen, killing many and disorganizing the rest. The Highlanders then charged with the bayonet, and overwhelmed the gunners, despite being heavily outnumbered.

  Clementine’s father had told her that story. He had claimed that many things in the British Empire would not have been possible without these robust men from the north. Looking back at the Scot, she saw Major Hodges dismiss him almost immediately. The man would live to fight another day.

  The next case came from Lancashire. The wound to his leg had festered. The limb would need to be amputated. And so began Clementine’s day. At around lunchtime, she was relieved by Sally and reassigned to patient aftercare. This routine would last for as long as the wounded came pouring in.

  Chapter 28

  Another week passed. So far, there had been no sign of Stirling or Royce. The arrival of men had slowed to a trickle once more. Clementine assumed there was some lull in the hostilities. She had come to learn that they did not last long though.

  “Clementine, a new patient has just arrived. He sounds like quite a difficult case. Florence asked me to tell you to have a look at him.”

  Clementine looked at Sally quizzically. “When did he get here? I didn’t see the usual influx entering the hospital.”

  “All I’ve been told is that he was kept until last with the other so-called head cases. The army gave priority to the men who might be able to return to the front.”

  “That figures. In the end, the generals are the ones that are the biggest butchers.” Clementine shrugged. “Well, let me have a look at him.” She followed Sally down the hall. “Why is this one termed a head case?”

  “All Florence mentioned was that he doesn’t say much and when he does, he tends to shout and get very angry. It’s understandable in a way…”

  “Why’s that, Sally?”

  “Poor man can’t walk. Something happened to him over there. Doctor Hodges had a look at him but he found no actual wounds on his back, legs or anything. He has a few scratches, some broken ribs and the likes – nothing one might consider major. The doctor thinks it is psychological - a kind of post-traumatic battle disorder or something. Whatever that may be.” Sally continued to warble on about this and that as they progressed along the narrow and dingy hallway.

  “What’s his regiment?” asked Clementine.

  “Eleventh Hussars if I am not mistaken.”

  Clementine felt an icy shiver descend her back. That was Stirling and Royce’s battalion. She found herself praying for the rest of the way to the room where Florence had left the man.

  The two nurses entered. He sat in a wheelchair facing the window. His head hung low with his chin touching his chest. He had black hair and broad shoulders. When Clementine got closer, she could see a part of his profile. There was something strangely familiar about him, but she brushed the notion aside.

  “Hello sir, can you tell us your name.” Sally picked up a paper on the desk and immediately scanned it. “Major…Whitt Whittaker…is that your name?”

  Clementine’s hands flew to her mouth. For a heartbeat, she remained frozen on the spot. So many emotions coursed through her simultaneously. She wanted to run up to him and flee the room at the same time. She felt alternating bouts of emotions co
urse through her. They varied between tears of elation that he was still alive and tears of despair because of the state he was in.

  However, one question hung over her like a dark cloud. Why had he lost the use of his legs? Clementine thought of what Sally had said earlier – there was no visual damage to his body. What could it be?

  At last, Sally stood before her with her hands pressed to her mouth. Her eyes were as wide as saucers, glistening over with tears. Clementine had told her so much about her fiancé that the other woman almost knew him. Sally had only realized after she had read out the name – she had not been thinking at the time.

  The two nurses exchanged a brief look in an attempt to give each other strength. Clementine was the first to recover her wits. Slowly, she circled the spot to where her fiancé sat. She behaved, as if he was some sort of vile creature ready to strike with its claws.

  “Stirling, it’s me, Clementine.” She grimaced when she heard her voice warble and squeak insipidly.