Morris nodded and rose to his feet, extending his hand. ‘I will be watching you,’ he said as he took Jack’s hand in his firm grip. ‘God help you if you fail. Because I shall not, I promise you that.’
Jack walked out of the stuffy confines of the colonel’s tent and into the bright morning sunshine. The lecture had shamed him but the colonel’s firm support had left him determined not to let the battalion down.
‘Captain Sloames!’
The portly figure of Lieutenant Digby-Brown lurched upright from where he had been perching on a water butt a short distance from the tent.
‘Digby-Brown. What a delightful surprise.’
‘Sorry to you bother you, sir,’ Digby-Brown replied, and then stopped as he saw the state of his captain’s face. ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars, sir.’ Digby-Brown tried not to smile.
‘What do you want, Digby-Brown?’ Jack’s positive mood faded in the face of his subaltern’s grating presence.
‘We have a problem, Sir. Fusilier Hayward has reported sick.’
‘Why is that a problem? Half this bloody army is sick.’
‘Yes, sir. However, half this army has not been beaten to a pulp. Hayward has and the fool is refusing to tell us who did it.’
Jack felt a sinking feeling deep in his gut. Slater was more than capable of beating one of his own men. It was typical of his brutal tactics. Beat one man in the company as a warning to the rest. The sergeant was moving fast; soon he would have the whole company eating out of his hand. He had to be stopped and stopped quickly.
‘You’d better take me to him.’
Fusilier Hayward was a mess. Digby-Brown had at least had the sense to leave the battered young fusilier with the company, away from the gaze of rest of the battalion. Jack could not help wincing as he took in Hayward’s injuries. He looked even worse than he himself had done after his own bruising encounter with Slater’s fists. Both of Hayward’s eyes were closed behind thick purple swellings. Welts and gouges covered his face, and his mouth had been reduced to a pulp. He was barely recognisable. The rest of the fusilier was surprisingly intact, Slater presumably concentrating on the face to give the most vivid demonstration of his viciousness to the rest of the Light Company. It would take a brave man to risk receiving such a battering.
‘Have him taken back to the beach, by two of our own men,’ Jack ordered Digby-Brown. ‘I don’t want some callous bandsmen making the trip a torment for him. He’s suffered enough.’
‘Yes, sir. I’ll take him myself.’ Digby-Brown noticed the concern on his captain’s face at seeing Hayward’s injuries. It was obvious Sloames cared rather more about his men than Digby-Brown had given him credit for. ‘How do you think this happened?’
‘How do you think? Some vicious bastard gave him one hell of a beating.’
‘One of our men?’
‘Most likely.’
‘But why? I mean, we are all in the same company. I cannot believe one of our men is guilty of such brutality.’
‘Don’t be so damn naïve,’ Jack snapped. ‘Half of the men come from the poorest backstreets of London. Violence is the common currency of their sorry lives.’ Jack did not try to hide his contempt for Digby-Brown. The lieutenant had no concept of the lives formerly led by the men he commanded. Digby-Brown was not to blame for the station into which he had been born. But Jack did blame him for having neither the wit nor the intelligence to learn about the men he was responsible for. To Jack that was unforgivable and all too typical of the supercilious officer class.
‘Get Hayward to the medical staff on the beach.’ Jack finished curtly, dismissing his troubled lieutenant.
His thoughts turned to the perpetrator of the cruel beating. It was time to make Slater pay for his crimes.
‘Drunk!’
‘Not only drunk, Flowers, but drunk on duty. I also have grounds to believe he was responsible for an assault on another of my men.’
‘I can scarcely credit it.’ The adjutant was appalled. ‘Why, he has only just joined the regiment.’
Jack shook his head, as if he too could not believe what he was reporting. ‘I fear we now know why he was thrown out of his former battalion. He was a colour sergeant there, I hear, but he lost his colours for victimising the men under his command. It would also appear he has a habit of making up fanciful tales to suit his spite. It’s a bad show all round.’
‘He’ll have to lose his stripes, of course.’
‘Of course.’ Jack tried to look suitably sombre.
‘I’ll arrange for him to transfer to another company. The timing is not ideal but it would be for the best.’ Lieutenant Flowers shook his head. ‘What possessed him? Drink really is the devil. Perhaps the temperance movement has it right.’
Jack thought of the toothless drunks who begged or stole all day simply to be able to buy the watered-down gin his mother sold. There could not be a better example of the evil of drink but it had never made him hesitate when the ale was being poured. ‘Can you really imagine living without a drink, Flowers? No claret? No porter? No whisky to dull the pain of an evening listening to Major Peacock?’
‘You do have a point.’ Flowers sighed. ‘Captain Devine can take him. His company is at the lowest strength. Let him make a fresh start in another company.’
‘I’d rather keep him. Give him another chance to prove himself.’ Jack wanted Slater close. There was no telling how he would react to losing his stripes and Jack was determined not to give the brutal man any opportunity to spread his poison around another officer’s company.
‘That’s very generous of you, but do you think it’s wise? The man is obviously a malcontent.’
‘I’d rather not. He’s my problem. I don’t like to hoist him on someone else.’
‘Well, it’s your decision, and one that does you great credit. I’ll arrange for the colonel to deal with it this afternoon. He won’t be best pleased. He has other things on his mind.’
‘Such as?’ Jack sensed news.
The adjutant looked around to check that no one could overhear them and dropped his voice. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this. The colonel wants to make a big announcement after church parade this afternoon and he’ll have a fit if he finds out I have stolen his thunder. Orders have come through from brigade. Raglan has agreed to march. I’ve no idea why he thinks we are ready to move but there you have it. I’m told the French have been making one hell of a fuss as we sit here dilly-dallying. So, ready or not, we’re to be off.’
It was the news the army had long waited to hear. The campaign was about to begin in earnest.
There was barely a cloud to trouble the grey-blue expanse of sky that, to Jack, seemed to have taken on a vastness he had never seen. It stretched from one distant horizon to the other, one great canopy of such immensity that it left him feeling very small. The sun did nothing to lift the spirits of the men who knew they must shortly suffer a long, exhausting march under its unseasonal heat. It brought back memories of the dire period they had endured in the feverish heat at the camp in Varna prior to their departure for the Crimea.
Jack found Tommy Smith working with McCulloch’s orderly, Johnson, using a shot case and a roundshot to grind up more of the green coffee beans that the battalion’s officers consumed at a terrific rate.
‘Good morning. Nice to see you both working on such an important task.’ Jack forced himself to sound jovial in front of McCulloch’s orderly.
‘Mornin’, sir. Lovely day.’
Johnson’s familiar London accent made Jack smile. ‘It is indeed, Johnson,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m afraid I need to borrow Smith.’
‘Course, sir. No bother. He’s no bleeding use anyhow. You’re welcome to him.’
‘Thank you, Johnson. Smith, come with me please.’
Jack led Smith away from
the keen ears of his fellow orderly. The officers’ servants thrived on gossip, as he himself knew only too well.
As soon as they were far enough away, Jack confided the adjutant’s information to his orderly who took in the news calmly and immediately understood the need for caution. Any advantage to the Light Company would disappear if the news spread and they had to compete with nearly six hundred men all trying to grab a share of the meagre supplies available.
‘What would you like me to do first, sir?’ Smith asked, keeping his voice low and slowly scanning the surrounding area for anyone who could overhear them.
‘Well, for starters you can stop looking so damn furtive.’
‘Sorry. Bit out of practice.’
Jack chuckled. ‘I’m glad to hear that. I can’t keep checking to see if you’ve filched my pocket book every time I stand near you.’
‘Now, sir, as if I would turn your pockets. Besides, I was never a pickpocket. I had more class.’
‘Truly? You never cease to amaze me.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I have some good news about Slater. I spoke to the adjutant and it’s done. He’ll face a battalion court martial this afternoon. I’ll be there and it’s just a formality. He’ll be reduced to the ranks.’
Smith smiled at the news ‘It’s no less than he deserves after what he did to young Hayward, not to mention yourself. So what do we do about Slater now? He’ll be after you.’
‘For now there is nothing more we can do. But watch my back.’ Jack looked at Smith keenly, seeking reassurance.
‘Just let me get a clear shot of the bastard, sir. I’ll sort him out.’
‘After me, Tommy. After me.’ Jack put the happy notion to one side. ‘Now, as soon as the colonel announces that we are finally to march inland, all hell will break loose. The most important thing is water. I know it’s already hard to get enough but we need to make certain the men’s canteens are full and that we get as much extra as we can carry.’
‘Right you are.’ Smith nodded.
‘Next, ammunition.’
‘No, that’s done,’ Smith said. ‘Digby-Brown carried out an ammunition check after roll call this morning. We all have our full tally. Not even Welsh Davies can have flogged any to the tinkers yet.’
‘Very good.’ Jack was surprised. Perhaps Digby-Brown was finally starting to contribute to the effective running of the company. ‘So that leaves the rations. We’ll have to wait for whatever the rest of the battalion gets issued but looking around the place,’ Jack gestured towards the many heaps of supplies that lay dumped around the battalion lines, ‘there is no way in hell we can take everything with us. Forage around a bit and see what you can square away. And see if you can sniff me out some tea. I’m getting heartily sick of all that bloody green coffee.’
‘I’m sure I can manage that. I’ll say you’re planning to take us off for another drill first thing in the morning so we need to get ready today. No one will question that. Moan like buggery and call you every name under the sun, but question it, no.’
‘I think I’ll ignore that last remark, Fusilier.’
‘As you choose.’ Smith hesitated. ‘The men think you’re doing well, sir. They seem to like you.’
‘What?’ Now Jack was truly surprised. He had not forgotten the near disaster of facing the Cossacks and he did not think the men had either.
‘Oh, they think you’re a rum cove, all right, and they’d as soon see you piss off and leave them alone. But they’re coming round to you. Especially since they heard about you taking a pop at Peacock.’
Jack looked his orderly in the eye, suspecting some flummery or banter in the words. But Smith met his gaze, his expression serious.
‘Well, I’m damn pleased to hear it. It’s about time I got some bloody recognition.’
‘But of course they don’t know you’re a fraud, so don’t let your head swell too much, will you, or it’s likely to get shot right off.’
Jack grinned. ‘Not much chance of that with you to remind me, Smith.’
Reveille sounded in the darkness. The bugle call was picked up and repeated throughout the three armies, strident and remorseless, demanding immediate action.
The British army scrambled to its feet, resembling an anthill that had been poked violently with a stick. They were still woefully unprepared for the long-awaited march. Despairing officers tried to organise their commands and bring order from the confusion, a hopeless endeavour made worse by the ill-informed staff officers to whom they turned for orders.
To the bewilderment and consternation of their French allies, the British were not ready to march at four o’clock as had been agreed the previous evening, nor were they ready at five o’clock. As the early-morning light pushed away the darkness the chaos in their lines was all too apparent.
The failure of the British commissariat was complete. Seven hundred wagons had been expected but barely one-third of that number had arrived. Mountains of supplies would have to be abandoned where they lay. The more enterprising soldiers were taking advantage of the disorder by pilfering the stores, filling their pockets and their greatcoats with extra rations, adding more confusion and delay.
Dealing with the mountains of stores was not the only task left outstanding. There were dozens of sick to be stretchered back to the beach and handed into the dubious care of the army’s medical staff. Water still had to be found for the soldiers’ canteens, no easy task given that the few wells that had been dug now produced only a little brackish water. Rations waited to be distributed, the meat to be carried raw, no time left for the soldiers to cook the salted pork that was all the army provided. The British army was in total disarray.
The French looked on appalled. Their bandsmen bugled and drummed impatiently, as if the martial music could inspire, cajole or shame their maddeningly disorganised allies to order. The French troops had been ready to march since before dawn. They sat despondently on the ground, wondering at the sanity of their masters who had tied their fate to the bungling British.
The coolness of the early morning gradually melted way, the heat building steadily as the sun rose. Miraculously, at nine o’clock in the morning, the British army was finally ready to march. The redcoats had muddled their way to readiness, the enterprise and industry of the battalion officers succeeding where the professionals in the commissariat had failed so completely.
In all their martial splendour, the armies of three countries would march directly for the Russian port of Sevastopol, the key objective of the campaign. Sunlight glinted off metal, battalion colours were unfurled, uniforms of every colour were massed in ranks of infantrymen, guardsmen, fusiliers, grenadiers, gunners, hussars, dragoons and lancers. It was a sight to stir the heart of even the most reluctant soldier.
The French would march on the right flank, with the sea and the might of the two navies on their right. With the French marched Suleiman Pasha and his six thousand Turkish soldiers. The British would march on the left. To smooth the ruffled feathers of the French generals, Raglan, ever the politician, had acceded to their demands to dictate the order of the march. Perhaps the politics of the joint command had distracted the British commander. Or perhaps Raglan saw no danger in the station the British had agreed to occupy in the combined column. Whatever the reason, the British marched with their left flank dangerously exposed. In the days of Wellington, cavalry outriders would have been despatched to patrol and protect the exposed flank. Intrepid young officers on fast, corn-fed horses would ride into the wide plains, probing for danger, so that no enemy formation could approach the open flank undetected. But Wellington was dead and the British army marched in one compact mass, its flank exposed save for a thin screen of light cavalry.
But this was not the morning for doubts. Led by their colours the British soldiers left their fears, their misgivings and their complaints behind them, the brave and stirring tunes from
their regimental bands propelling them forward.
The cavalry led the way, the dandies and the aristocrats at the fore, their horses prancing in the excitement. Lord Cardigan, with the 13th Light Dragoons and the 11th Hussars, formed the vanguard of the army. His bitterest enemy, Lord Lucan, who also happened to be his brother-in-law and his commanding officer, led the 8th Hussars and the 17th Lancers on the left flank.
Behind them marched the Rifle Brigade, the feared Greenjackets who had once so tormented Napoleon’s veterans on the battlefields of Portugal, Spain and France. Then, the Greenjackets had been the acclaimed masters of the skirmish line. Now, their descendants were desperate to prove their superiority once again, even in the modern world where every soldier bore the once coveted power of the rifle.
Behind them came the infantry, the men Wellington so harshly titled the scum of the earth. They were the least regarded yet the most important of all the troops that marched that day, for it was the humble redcoat who would decide the fate of the battle to come. Victories were not won by the glamorous cavalry, or by the hard-bitten professionalism of the rifles. Even the deadly killing machines of the artillery would not decide who was victorious. Battles were won by the tenacity, the bravery and the sheer bloody-mindedness of the massed ranks of the infantry. Whether they were guardsman, fusiliers, grenadiers, or just plain redcoated infantrymen, all battles came down to their ability to deliver the power of their massed volleys, their willingness to endure the carnage inflicted upon them and the raw courage that would see them close to butcher the enemy with their bayonets.
The King’s Royal Fusiliers marched at the head of the Light Division. The fusiliers had suffered their fair share of disorder that morning. Many of the men marched with half-full canteens of water or with barely enough rations to last them the day. Yet they marched with pride. It was a day to savour being a fusilier in the service of the Queen.
Jack marched proudly at the head of his company. It was hard for him not to look smug so he did not even try, instead merely nodding his head in acknowledgement of the scowls of his brother officers whose men marched inadequately prepared. The Light Company marched with full canteens of water, and the sergeants and corporals carried numerous spares. Their ration bags were full and Tommy Smith even marched with one of his spare stockings crammed full of tea liberated from one of the many abandoned supply chests. One company, at least, would not be going short.
The Scarlet Thief Page 14