Victors and Lords

by V. A. Stuart

  She met Alex’s concerned eyes. “Are there no ships, Alex?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “There is a mail ship, the Beaver, due to sail for Scutari on the tide. I delivered despatches to her purser before I came here. He told me that they had been lucky—they had had some cases of the disease but no deaths. If Charlotte were to go down to the harbour at once, she might catch her before she sails.” He caught at Emmy’s hand. “Do you wish me to take her to the Beaver and see if it can be arranged?”

  “Yes,” she said, decisively, “I think it is the best thing. Charlotte will make herself ill, if she stays.”

  “But you will be left here alone, Emmy my love. Will you not go with her?” Alex glanced pityingly at Arthur Cassell’s grey, pain-racked face and twitching limbs and lowered his voice. “He has it badly, you know. He may not live for more than a few hours.”

  “I want to do what I can for him,” Emmy answered, her tone calm and certain. “For as long as he lives. And I am not afraid to be left here alone. Constantin will be here . . . and the other servants. Truly, Alex, you need suffer no anxiety on my account.”

  Alex did not argue. He picked up Charlotte’s valise and, an arm about her, led her sobbing from the room, as gently and impersonally as if she had been a frightened child placed in his care. He no longer attempted to reason with her or reproach her, for he, too, saw now that she was beyond reason and that reproaches would have no effect upon her. Charlotte did not look back, did not bid farewell either to Emmy or to her husband and he, writhing in pain, did not appear to notice that she had gone.

  “Help me,” he begged hoarsely. “Dear heaven, help me . . . .”

  Emmy bent over him and loosened the constricting cravat from about his neck. Constantin could help her to undress him later on, she thought. Now it was essential that she keep him warm, with hot flannels applied to his back and abdomen. She had some tincture of camphor in a bottle in her room and, if she could get him to take a few sips of that, it might ease his pain. “Lie still, Arthur,” she bade him softly but he did not hear as another violent convulsion seized him.

  Emmy called out to Constantin to bring her what she would need and, gritting her teeth, set to work, with all the skill at her command, to fight for his life. She knew, as she commenced the battle, that it would take everything she had to give, for already the pain he was enduring was sapping the frail remnants of his strength. Alex had been right when he said Arthur had the disease badly. The rapid onset of its symptoms characterized the virulence of the infection and she had seen too many twisted, blackened faces and writhing bodies, amongst the pathetic cargoes borne by the ambulance wagons, to have any illusions as to the type which Charlotte’s husband had contracted . . . .

  In a little over two hours, Alex was back. He told her briefly that he had arranged for Charlotte’s passage to Scutari in the mail ship and that the captain had placed a single cabin at her disposal. In addition, he had encountered, quite by chance, a British sergeant’s wife, who was anxious to leave Varna. “She seemed a respectable woman and she was there, by the dock with her husband—hoping to prevail on the captain of the Beaver to take her without paying her fare. I offered her the chance to sail with Charlotte, as her maid, and she accepted at once, with tears of gratitude, poor soul.” Alex smiled briefly. “I ascertained that Charlotte had sufficient money for her immediate needs, so I do not think you need worry about her any more, Emmy dear. And indeed, nor need I . . . .” Once again his gaze went to Arthur’s face and he expelled his breath in a long sigh. “How is he, poor fellow?”

  “He is alive,” Emmy told him, feeling that this, in itself, was no small triumph. “But he is still suffering a great deal. I think perhaps you should leave me with him, Alex.”

  “He is not the first case of cholera I have seen, Emmy. Or the first I’ve helped to cleanse, either. Come . . ..” He was already taking off his stable-jacket and rolling up his sleeves. “This is not work for a woman, whatever you say. Leave him to me for half an hour, while you go and try to eat something.”

  Afterwards, they sat together at the bedside in silence, as Emmy managed to spoon a few sips of brandy between the sick man’s clenched teeth.

  “I shall have to ride back to camp,” Alex told her regretfully. “But before I go, Emmy my darling, there is just one suggestion I should like to make to you.”

  She looked up to him. “And that is?”

  “We’ll be leaving here very soon—rumor has it that orders for the army to embark are about to be issued. I do not want to leave you alone and unprotected.”

  “How can you do otherwise?” Emmy asked.

  He reddened a little but met her inquiring gaze steadily.

  “Constantin told me, when I came in, that you had sent for a chaplain—”

  “A priest,” Emmy amended, “for Arthur. He promised he would come as soon as he could.” She stifled a sigh. “All the chaplains are kept busy, night and day. But he will come.”

  “When he does,” Alex said gravely, “will you allow me to ask him to marry us? I should like to give you at least the protection of my name, Emmy. It is all I can give you now but—”

  “It is enough,” Emmy told him and suddenly she was weeping in his arms. He held her tenderly to him. “My sweet love, why do you weep?”

  “Because . . . oh, because in spite of everything, I am happy.”

  “Yet you shed tears!”

  “They are tears of joy, Alex. I know that you love me now. I believe it.”

  He lifted her face to his and kissed her. “Whatever happens to either of us,” he told her huskily, “go on believing that, it is the truth. You will be my wife, Emmy, and I shall come back to you, God willing. Because this is what I have prayed for, my darling. You are all I love . . . .”

  A little later an exhausted chaplain, having administered the Last Rites to Arthur Cassell, turned and murmured the few words necessary to make Emmy the wife of Alex Sheridan. The two men left together—Alex to ride the thirty miles back to the Cavalry Division’s camp at Issytype, the chaplain to stumble wearily among the dying in the over-crowded hospital, offering what comfort he could.

  Emmy was left to her vigil and, by morning, Arthur was conscious and able to speak her name. That day orders came for the British and French armies to embark for the Crimea and she saw her husband only once again, when he rode through Varna in the wake of the Highland Brigade, later to board the steam-transport Emeu with Sir Colin Campbell’s staff.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ALEX WROTE to Emmy, from the Emeu, managing to pen a few lines to her each day. He wrote admiringly of Sir Colin Campbell, to whose staff he was now attached.

  “Sir Colin received me kindly and I do not regret my temporary change of service. It is a privilege to serve under a general of his caliber . . . yet seems a grave reflection on the system of promotion now obtaining in the British army that he should merit command only of a brigade when others, of far less ability and certainly less experience, are given divisions. He is 62 years old and has had 46 of those years in the army . . . he was with Sir John Moore at Corunna, in every battle of the Peninsular War and, as a colonel, Lord Gough gave him a division at Chillian-walla, the same he commanded, with equal distinction, at Gujerat. He fought on the Indian frontier under Sir Charles Napier . . . in fact, I do not think there is a major battle, during his lifetime, in which he has not taken part. Yet here he is ranked second to General Bentinck, who commands the Guards Brigade, and the brevets go to Lucan and Cardigan! But he does not complain and, indeed, sets an example of generosity of heart and true greatness of spirit, which I myself would do well to follow . . . .”

  The letter broke off at this point, to be continued:

  “It is now 2 September and we are all embarked on board the transport Emeu.We have the 42nd with us—the other two regiments of the Brigade, the 79th and the 93rd, are divided among other ships. A vast armada of ships is gathering at Baldehik Bay, under the command of Admiral Lyons, as embark
ation proceeds. It is said that there are over six hundred ships in all, including 37 British line-of-battle sail and a hundred frigates, to serve as our escorts. Admiral Dundas, we are told, is patrolling the Crimean coast, with a smaller force, in expectation of a Russian sortie from Sebastopol. The French and Turks have been accommodated—in conditions of some discomfort, I imagine—on board ships of the line. They have completed their embarkation and grow impatient . . . for we have not. But it is the horses which are causing us so much delay—the French have no cavalry and are taking only seventy guns, with four horses to each. We, on the other hand, have to load the Light Cavalry Brigade—a thousand horses—and a further four hundred and fifty is the minimum requirement for our Horse Artillery’s guns and limbers.

  “An order has been issued, restricting officers’ chargers to one apiece and we have heard that the six thousand pack horses—so labouriously collected in Bulgaria by Lord Cassell and Edward Nolan—are to be left behind. So, too, to my sorrow, is the Heavy Cavalry Brigade . . . they are to follow us, as soon as transports can be sent back for them, together with the siege train and the men’s tents.

  “I have not seen Phillip but am told he is aboard the Himalaya with Cardigan and his headquarters . . . and that your friend, Mrs Duberly, has contrived, with his lordship’s consent, to smuggle herself aboard also. Lady Errol also is rumored to be with the Rifles, but I cannot vouch for the truth of this. Rumors are legion. Marshal St Arnaud sailed this evening in the Ville de Paris, which flies the flag of Admiral Hamlin, together with the rest of the French ships . . . evidently our rate of loading is too slow for him. Men continue to die of cholera but the medical officers assure us that, once we are at sea, the infection will lose its virulence and we shall be freed of it at last. I pray that this may be so and my thoughts are constantly with you, my courageous wife, and the cholera victim for whose life you are fighting.

  “We, who are leaving Varna, may escape but you, my darling, for whose safety I would a thousand times gladly sacrifice my own, must remain. Go as soon as you can to join your sister in Therapia, Emmy my love, and take no more needless risks. I have asked William Beatson to do what he can for you in the matter of a passage to Scutari and I beg you, if you love me, listen to his advice and permit him to serve you . . . .”

  The letter continued, on a more optimistic note, under the date of Thursday, 7 September.

  “Last night, driven back it is believed by bad weather, the French fleet returned. And, in the early hours of this morning, while it was still moonlight, Admiral Lyons’ signal to weigh anchor was received, with great thankfulness, by our fleet. It was obeyed as dawn broke and never was there so splendid a sight as when our ships started to put to sea. The day promised fair and as the sun rose it shone down on a veritable forest of masts and spars. Sails were hoisted and unfurled; on deck, the bands played and the men cheered. Steamers took the transports in tow, a pair to each, and the whole manœuvre smartly executed, each wheeling into line with her next ahead. We leaned on the rail and tried to count them but the task was beyond us, as more and more ships appeared from nowhere to join us.

  “We have received our orders for landing although, as yet, no hint has been given as to where our landing will be made. Most of us are of the opinion that it will be as near as possible to Sebastopol itself since this, it is now known, is to be our objective. The Infantry is to land by divisions; the Light, then the 1st, which is ours, followed by the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th. Each man is to carry ashore with him nothing save his ammunition and three days’ rations and from this, Colonel Cameron of the 42nd, has deduced that we may expect our landing to be opposed. But Sir Colin disagrees with him; in his view, Lord Raglan will endeavor to put the army ashore at some point where the Russians are least expecting it.”

  On Tuesday, 12 September, Alex wrote:

  “Last Sunday, leaving the fleet at anchor off Cape Tarkan, Lord Raglan’s ship, the Caradoc, detached herself and departed for an unknown destination. His lordship was accompanied by General Canrobert, Admiral Lyons, Sir George Brown and Sir John Bur-goyne and we have since learned that they made a reconnaissance of Sebastopol, approaching within range of the guns. As a precaution, the Caradoc hoisted a Russian flag but she was unmolested and, indeed, appears to have conducted her survey without arousing the smallest interest in those on shore!

  “And now we have weighed anchor and are making for Calamita Bay where we are to make our landing at the place chosen by Lord Raglan, which is some ten miles north of the Bulgnak River, and not far from the ancient Ottoman town of Eupatoria. This town surrendered to us today, without a shot being fired.”

  The final paragraphs of the letter bore the date of 15 September.

  “I landed yesterday, with Sir Colin and his staff and, as he had predicted, our landing was unopposed. We were watched by a few Cossacks but that was all. No horses could be landed and no tents . . . after trudging five miles inland on foot, the sunshine turned to heavy rain. Colonel Sterling, the brigade major, had provided himself with a portable bivouac shelter, purchased in London but this, alas was too small to take us all. He and Sir Colin kept reasonably dry but I, in common with the rest of the British army, was soon soaked to the skin. The French were better off, each man carrying a dog-tent in his pack and the Turks, who landed fully equipped with tents, had an encampment set up before the downpour commenced, thus putting us to shame. Our poor fellows had no protection save their greatcoats and sodden blankets and could light no bivouac fires, so that they were hungry, as well as damp and cold. Many, hardly yet recovered from the effects of cholera and dysentery, suffered a relapse and had to be carried back to the ships—some, I fear, dying.

  “Today bright sunshine has succeeded the rain but we have made the unhappy discovery that the countryside is almost waterless. Men who have exhausted the contents of their water-canteens, are drinking from muddy pools, despite orders to the contrary, and this too, has led to many falling sick. Sir Colin Campbell’s Highlanders are the least affected—they are accustomed to sleeping in the open, wrapped in their plaids, and the kilt is a wonderful protection for those who wear it, against cold and damp. In addition, they obey orders and bear their thirst stoically, good fellows that they are.

  “I am writing these last lines to you, seated on a sand dune, watching the unloading of the Light Brigade’s horses. As their disembarkation threatened to cause as much delay as did their loading, they are being lowered over the ship’s side and left to swim ashore by themselves. It is an unpleasant spectacle but the majority have landed safely. A few, too frightened to see where the shore was, set their faces out to sea and were drowned. Our own horses, including my grey Arab, Shahraz, were put ashore more humanely for which I, at least, am thankful.

  “I now await an opportunity to approach the purser of the Himalaya to whom I intend to entrust delivery of my letter to you. I hope you will receive it although, in my heart, I confess to the contradictory wish that you may not be in Varna when the ship returns there . . . rather is it my hope that you are even now on your way to join Charlotte in Constantinople or Therapia, and Lord Cassell with you. Wherever you are, my dearest Emmy, my thoughts and my prayers are constantly of you and for you. God bless and keep you, my love.”

  There was a postscript, scrawled across the back of the envelope, to say that Alex had seen and passed the time of day with Mrs Duberly who, parted from her husband, had been on her way to take passage in the Shooting Star.

  Emmy received the letter from one of the Himalaya’s officers but it did not allay her anxiety on Alex’s account for, even as she read it, there were rumours of a terrible battle being fought at the Alma. But Arthur Cassell, still weak though convalescent now, offered her comfort and William Beatson, calling to bid her farewell before sailing for the Crimea with the Heavy Brigade, urged them both to return to Scutari.

  “It is said,” he told her, “that a certain Miss Nightingale is coming out under the auspices of the British government, to organize a band o
f nurses to care for our sick in the hospital at Scutari. I am certain that, with your experience and training, Mrs Sheridan, your assistance would be welcome.”

  Emmy inclined her head. “When Arthur is fit to travel,” she agreed, “I’ll take your advice, Colonel Beatson. In the meantime”—she put a letter in his hand, smiling up at him—“would you be so kind as to give this to Alex when you see him?”

  He took it and, having placed it carefully in his wallet, lifted her hand to his lips. “Au revoir, my dear . . . may God have you in His keeping. We shall meet again, I hope.”

  Emmy echoed his wish, with tears in her eyes.

  The British and French armies had marched to the banks of the Alma, crossing the Bulgnak on the afternoon of 19 September. Apart from a skirmish, in which the Light Cavalry Brigade had been somewhat ingloriously involved, they had met with no opposition although, as the march progressed and the heat increased, more and more men fell out.

  They had made a brave and memorable spectacle when they set out, in their ordered ranks and brilliant uniforms, with bands playing and the men singing, the French with drums rolling on the right of the line, marching in their traditional diamond formation. But after a while, the singing ceased and the bands were silent. Men collapsed, writhing in the agony of a cholera attack; others started to discard the heavier items of their equipment—greatcoats, shakos, bearskins, mess-tins, crossbelts—as the sun rose higher and the pangs of thirst grew more acute. They plodded grimly on, leaving a trail of dead and dying comrades behind them, to be given whatever attention the small, desperately overtaxed band of stretcher bearers in the rear could provide. With the merciful coming of darkness, they halted and lit bivouac fires and the exhausted men gathered round them to cook their evening meal. A number, too tired to eat, flung themselves down and slept where they fell; some died during the night, unheard by those who lay stretched out beside them.