Gillespie pondered for only a moment. 'I will inform Sir Colin that we have cleared the path for him.' He stepped back, with his men following, laughing grimly as they recounted their minor victory.
The snow mercifully eased as they approached the Heights, and Jack led his men up into deepening snow. The Black Watch followed in immediate support and the remainder of the column toiled in the rear. There was no talking now, with men alert for possible sentries or saving their breath for the climb. The113th spread out as they had been trained and moved cautiously, rifles ready for instant action, each footstep measured and controlled and eyes never still.
'That Cossack picket may have been isolated,' Jack explained to Gillespie, 'or it may have been the advance party for a larger force.' He pushed ahead, increasing the pace and knowing the 113th would be with him. He wanted his men to arrive first, so they could scout the summit before the 42nd arrived.
There was a fresh flurry of snow, followed by the sight of the hill-top swathed in unmarked white with no trace of a Cossack or any other Russian. There were only rocks and the unsullied smoothness of the snow.
'Quarter past five,' O'Neill announced cheerfully. 'Good going, sir.'
Jack nodded. 'Check the other slopes for Cossacks, O'Neill, and set the men to work to build some sort of barricade in case we are attacked.'
'Yes, sir,' O'Neill shouted out a string of orders.
'So now we are here,' Gillespie looked around at the bleakly empty heights. 'And now we wait for the French.'
'Again,' Jack was unable to control his tongue.
They waited for hours as the sun rose in red-hued glory that showed the beauty of the Crimean peninsula when not ruined by war. The light strengthened over the winter landscape, with all the scars hidden and the snow pristine, seeming to increase the heights of the hills and sharpen their outlines against a sky whose splendour acted as an apology for the bitter weather of the previous night.
'Where are these blasted French?' Gillespie looked at his watch, snapped the cover shut and fiddled with the hilt of his broadsword. 'We seem to spend half our lives waiting for them to do something.'
The sun eased up, inch by inch. Opening his telescope, Jack searched for the expected French so the advance could start. Gillespie was right; waiting was frustrating.
It was mid-morning before the French General Vinoy marched over with three regiments to inform Campbell that General Bosquet's attack had been called off due to the adverse weather. When the news filtered to the men on the summit, Gillespie threw his forage cap on the ground and stamped on it. 'Damn these useless Froggy beggars!' His men echoed his disappointment as they turned around for the long tramp back to their camp.
'Was that it, sir?' O'Neill asked. 'We're not advancing further?'
'Not this time, O'Neill,' Jack said. 'The boys did well. You can tell them I said that.'
'Well that was pointless,' Elliot said when Jack returned to camp.
'Not quite,' Jack said. 'Our men surprised a picket of Cossacks and sent them packing. We treated them as they are more used to treating us.' He unbuckled his pistol and sword, hung them in a corner and threw himself onto the only chair. 'That's a start.'
'So what happens now?' Elliot asked.
'We go back to the trenches, and wait our chance,' Maxwell said as he entered the tent. 'Windrush, keep your men fit and trained. The original plan is back on: I want Anderson and his Cossacks destroyed.'
Chapter Thirteen
Spring 1855
'Did you hear the news?' Elliot never disappointed when it came to spreading gossip.
'What news is that?' Jack asked.
'Nicholas is dead.'
'Oh?' Jack raised what he hoped was a languid eyebrow in the most fashionable manner he could. 'And who, pray, is Nicholas?'
'The Tsar, you muff!' Elliot said excitedly. 'He died on the 21st February. His son, Alexander is the new tsar.'
'Does that affect us?' Jack wondered.
Elliot shrugged and uncorked the flask that was now his constant companion. 'I'm sure I don't know,' he said. 'I get to hear things; I can't predict the future.'
Jack looked out of the tent flap. A consignment of huts had arrived to help the army combat the cold, and a force of navigators was busily building a railway line from Balaklava to the British camp. After a winter where the army had virtually disintegrated, the British were beginning to display some of the skill that had enabled them to master so much of the world. Kindly people back home had learned of the suffering of their soldiers and had sent tons of warm clothing, in time for spring.
'It looks as if we have survived the winter,' Jack said. 'There were times I doubted that we could.'
'You damned croaker,' Elliot offered him the flask. When Jack shook his head he took another swallow, recorked it and replaced it in his pocket. 'One more for luck,' he said, and recovered the flask for another drink.
'You're taking too much of that stuff,' Jack said.
'You can't have too much of a good thing,' Elliot said. 'And you're turning into a prig as well as a croaker.' He grinned across the mouth of his flask. 'Your very good health.'
'And yours, Your Grace,' Jack said, slightly sourly. 'I wish you could find out when we are going to attack this blasted city so we can all go home.'
'Home?' Elliot's smile was as bitter as anything Jack had ever seen in his life. 'This is home my boy. Campaigns and death, bad food and disease, watching lesser men rise over us while we wallow in filth, waiting for death, slow or fast.' He lifted his flask in salute. 'Here's to death, Jack my lad; sweet death, a blessed relief from the torment of life.' He lowered his voice, 'the angel of death has been abroad throughout the land; you may almost hear the beating of his wings.'
'Oh very poetic, Arthur,' Jack said.
'I thought so. John Bright the Liberal politician said that,' Elliot's voice broke on the final word.
Jack turned away as the first tear seeped from Elliot's eyes. It was never good to see a grown man cry, especially when there was nothing one could do to alleviate his distress. He knew that neither of them would even mention Elliot's allowing him to see behind the bright mask; it was a sign of trust that Jack appreciated, although it also left him uncomfortable. British officers did not show weakness.
March brought a gradual improvement in the weather. Morale lifted in the British camp, men began playing cricket, throwing balls at improvised stumps over the rocky ground and ignoring the occasional round shot from the Russian guns. The first flowers appeared on the uplands where the British were camped, and in the gardens around the once-trim houses of Balaklava. As the British came to grips with the port and the logistical nightmare was slowly controlled, the Maxwell residence stood out as an island of serenity and order.
'We have crocuses and snowdrops coming through now,' Helen said, 'and that despite the great tramping feet of half the soldiers in Christendom, aye and Moslemdom too, or whatever the Turks call themselves.' She crouched down in her garden and pointed a finger that would have been delicate if it was not for the semi-circle of dirt under the nail. 'And we have hyacinths as well. I had to replant that after some great lump of a Turk planted his boot on top of it. I gave him what-for, I can tell you!'
'I can imagine that you did,' Jack said. Having experienced Mrs Colonel Maxwell's ire, he guessed that Helen, brought up on a succession of British military bases, would be equally formidable.
Helen smiled, pleased that her temper was respected. 'Mother urged the authorities into action,' she said, 'you will note the difference in the town. There are no more dead horses lying rotting in the streets, quick lime has been placed to eradicate any nuisances and there are less unsavoury women waiting to entrap weak men with their hideous diseases.'
'I noticed the lack of dead horses,' Jack said. He thought it more tactful not to mention his men had complained that there were fewer women available on which to slake their lust. Balaklava was certainly much cleaner, with all the open cesspools filled up; it was
more efficient as well, with the railway hauling supplies to the British camp and the harbour working at distributing the supplies brought in day after day.
'This is more like a British port,' Helen nodded with satisfaction. 'The Army can prove its worth now.' Taking told of Jack's hand, she led him out of the garden and into the town. 'With all these replacements pouring in, our little port is quite the place to be. There are officers' wives and sergeant's wives gossiping at all the corners and I am picking up great stores of juicy tit-bits about the officers.'
'I am sure you are.' Jack slipped his arm within the crook of her elbow.
Helen rolled her eyes at him. 'There are a great deal of very handsome young officers as well, Jack Windrush, so you be careful that you are nice to me or I will be whisked away by a tall and aristocratic Guardsman or a captain of cavalry.'
'Oh no,' Jack smiled, shaking his head. 'Guardsmen make poor husbands; they are far too full of themselves, while cavalrymen care more for their horses than their wives, and they all talk with such effected tones that you would hardly understand what they are saying.'
'I mentioned nothing about marrying,' Helen said quickly, 'yet you said that word husband.'
'A slip of the tongue,' Jack tried to sound careless.
'I am sure it was,' Helen squeezed his arm within her own. 'Maybe a captain of engineers then…'
'Oh no, they talk shop all the time. All that conversation about gabions and parallels and trenches and they are always covered in mud and oil.' Jack shook his head. 'Not for the likes of you, Helen.'
Her laugh was short and welcome. 'Oh well, I had better just get used to the idea that I will be Mrs Windrush sometime then.'
'Yes,' he said. 'That is best.'
They looked at each other wordless as they realised what they had just said. Helen pulled free.
'Mother told me that the siege is not progressing as favourably as we would like,' She broke an awkward pause.
'It is taking more time than we expected' Jack said.
'Oh.' Helen stopped to look back over the harbour. 'Perhaps you are just not trying hard enough.'
'The men are desperate to attack,' Jack said.
'I see,' Helen said. 'If the men are so ready, the fault must be with the officers.' Her look was meaningful.
Jack opened his mouth to retaliate, to tell her that both officers and men were frustrated at the length of the siege, but closed it again. He knew that hot words would not help his situation.
'You agree with me then,' Helen was obviously not inclined to let him escape to easily.
'We are so few in number,' Jack said slowly, 'that we are in the hands of the French.'
'Oh pooh!' Helen said. 'The French, the numbers, the weather, the conditions … all we get is excuses! I thought the British Army was better than that! I thought we had the best army in the world, full of dashing officers and brave men ready to give all for Queen and country! Instead we have an army that is second to the French, full of croakers ready to find excuses to do nothing.'
'There are many brave officers and men…' Jack defended his army.
'I hope so, Jack Windrush, I really hope so.' Helen took another step further away. 'A few moments ago you were talking about me not marrying a Guardsman, a cavalryman or an engineer. I will tell you this for nothing, Jack that whoever I marry will be a brave man.' She surveyed him, with her gaze roaming up and down from his head to his feet and back. 'You were brave when you helped rescue us in the storm. I have not forgotten that, Jack.' Her hand crept forward, her fingers inter-twining with his.
He welcomed her touch. 'You were every bit as brave,' he said, hoping for peace between them.
'I had no choice,' she said. 'You had.' She stepped closer, his Helen once more and not the sharp-tongued stranger. 'If you show that bravery on the battlefield, Jack Windrush, I am sure you will get your promotion to captain, and after that, who knows what may happen?' Her smile embraced him, golden with promise.
'Who knows indeed,' Jack said, happy to be in her good books again, although her bewildering twists and turns left him feeling like a piece of flotsam adrift on the Black Sea.
'I wish this war was over,' Helen said quietly. 'I don't like Balaklava; I don't like this Crimea.' She looked at him, her eyes dark. 'I have lived in a dozen countries Jack and I have always felt at home. Here I just feel scared.' She fingered the triangular Tartar amulet she wore around her neck. 'I always feel that something awful is about to happen.'
'The war can't go on much longer,' Jack said. 'Lord Raglan must order the assault soon and once we're inside the walls the Russians will ask for terms. '
Helen's smile was unconvincing. 'I hope you are right, Jack. And then will we leave this terrible place?'
'As soon as we can,' Jack said. 'I will be glad to turn my back on Crimea for ever.'
'Helen Emily Maxwell!' Mrs Colonel Maxwell's voice sounded clearly to them.
'Mother wants me,' Helen's smile became more genuine.
'I hear her.' Jack swore silently. Mrs Colonel Maxwell's timing was bad; he and Helen were beginning to relax at last.
'I'd better go,' Helen moved toward her house as quickly as dignity allowed. Jack kept up with her. She turned as she re-entered her house, smiled and walked inside, with her hand behind her back, fingers waving farewell. When the door closed, Jack felt a terrible sense of desolation.
That month of March the engineers hacked the British trenches closer to Sebastopol so that the closest Russian rifle pits were only six hundred yards distant. Watching every allied move from their redoubts of the Redan and Malakoff, on the 13th the Russians decided on a policy of discouragement and opened fire with a torrent of artillery. The British guns replied in kind.
'Here we go again,' O'Neill sucked at the dry mixture that filled the bowl of his pipe. 'I wish I had a light at a time like this.'
Elliot handed over his lit cheroot and O'Neill applied it to his tobacco. 'Thank you kindly sir,' he said, puffing out foul smoke.
'Johnny Russ does not like us coming so close to his home,' Elliot said. 'It can't be long now before Lord Raglan decides that enough is enough. Then we will crash through his walls and take his pretty little town.'
O'Neill grunted. 'The Ruskis will have to do better than that to stop us, sir,' he pointed to a cannon ball that fell two hundred yards short and bounced on the hard ground. 'Or that,' another ball joined the first.
'Let's all laugh at Johnny Russ,' Logan jeered as the British soldiers began to cat-call and whistle at the ineffective Russian cannonade.
'Don't laugh too hard,' Jack said. 'These Russian lads can quickly get better.'
'We're good too,' Coleman said. 'As soon as the bloody French get sorted out…' he realised he was talking to an officer and tailed off.
Jack agreed with Coleman but as the days eased past and the allies were no closer, he became more frustrated. He knew that the longer his men remained static in their trenches, the staler they would become. The edge that was forged during their training would become dull unless it was used. He watched as his men merged with the others in the 113th and knew he was too low a rank to do anything about it.
The better weather encouraged the British soldiers to revert to their normal pastimes. As huts gradually replaced the worn-out tents, tempers and morale improved. Those men with the means and an agricultural background purchased poultry from the local Tartars and created runs for them so that the crowing of cocks awakened the camp, much to the annoyance of those who had spent the previous twelve hours in the trenches.
The British love of sports continued as the original two rough cricket pitches increased to half a dozen, with wickets created on any reasonably level patch of ground. The Russian sentries could enjoy the edifying spectacle of men throwing balls at makeshift stumps or batted them away into the rocky gulleys. Others played rough games of football in friendly competition while soldiers from the many Scottish regiments tried out their golf swings and the wail of the bagpipes sounded from
the Highland lines.
There was a new song seeping through the ranks. Jack stopped to listen, wondering if it was a paean of despair. Instead it was the opposite, a song about the victory of the Alma. Remembering the blood and glory of that day, Jack listened to the words of some of the stanzas:
The French they had the right that day, & flanked the Russian line,
Whilst full upon their front they saw the British Bayonets shine;
With hearty cheers we stunned their ears, amidst the cannons' roar,
On the Twentieth of September, Eighteen hundred fifty-four!
A letter to Old Nick they found & this is what it said,
“To meet their bravest men my liege your Russians do not dread,”
But devils them not mortal men, the Russian Generals swore,
On the Twentieth of September, Eighteen hundred fifty-four!
Here's health to noble Raglan, to Campbell and to Brown,
And to the gallant Frenchmen who share the day's renown;
Whilst we displayed the black cockade & they the Tricolour'
The Russian hue was black & blue in September fifty-four.
The first race meeting was on the 5th March, with four horses competing for a small prize. Jack was in the trenches so missed the competition, while Elliot was nearly breathless with excitement as he recounted the events. 'It was capital fun, Jack, all that was needed was a few petticoats to colour the crowd and you would have thought it was the Derby!'
Jack tried to smile. 'I'm glad you enjoyed it.'
'We had a Russian officer among us,' Elliot continued, 'a prisoner on parole and he asked when we were going to attack Sebastopol. “Oh Lord bless you”, I said, “not in the next few days. We have so many race meetings to come off, don't you know.” Elliot laughed out loud. 'The poor fellow didn't know if it was Christmas or Sunday he was so confused.'
Windrush: Blood Price (Jack Windrush Book 3) Page 12