by Peter Watt
Ian immediately left the room and stormed to the front entrance, where a startled servant saw him fling open the door and walk towards Charles with murder in his eyes. A couple of paces from Charles, Ian stopped as the snow fell in ever increasing intensity. It was bitterly cold, but Ian did not feel it. He blocked Charles from entering the warmth of the house.
‘You pledged to me that you were to break off all contact with Jane,’ Ian said in a cold, steady voice. ‘You and Sir Archibald also told me that Dr Campbell would have permission to continue seeing Alice. Both promises broken. I ought to give you a thrashing.’
Ian could see the rising fear in Charles’ face.
‘Father and I reconsidered our foolish acquiesce to your preposterous demands, and decided that we did not have to comply. I also know that you are only a half-brother to me, and that should be enough to disinherit you from any future claims on the Forbes estate. But, I admit, such proof is almost impossible to prove. Besides, Jane is little more than a whore who I pay for. You should step aside or I will call the servants to force you to do so.’
Ian did not budge, and Charles reached out to shove him in the chest. That was enough excuse for Ian to swing a punch that caught Charles in the face. Years of manual work had hardened Ian’s body, and the punch split Charles’ lip, splashing blood on the white snow at his feet. Adopting the stance of a bareknuckle fighter, Ian followed up with a barrage of blows. Charles reeled under the blows, unable to make any attempt to defend himself.
‘Stop this now!’ A voice roared from the steps behind Ian. The rage was dissipating when Ian saw his opponent sprawled on the snow at his feet, holding his gloved hand to his battered face. Ian turned to see Sir Archibald standing on the steps, flanked by two male servants. Sir Archibald hurried to his son, accompanied by the frightened servants.
‘My son, do you need medical assistance?’ Sir Archibald asked, kneeling beside Charles.
‘I hope so,’ Ian said calmly. ‘Or I haven’t done my job teaching the bastard a lesson.’
Archibald swung on Ian. ‘I will arrange to have a carriage convey you and that Canadian colonial friend of yours back to London immediately. You are never again to return to the house, nor our London residence. Your brutal behaviour is not becoming of a gentleman of the Forbes name. Now, go and pack.’
Ian turned his back on Charles, who was being helped to his feet with blood flowing from his face. Ian felt good, the threat of being disposed from the Forbes properties not of great concern to him. Ian went inside the house and gathered together a few personal items. He was soon joined by a glum-faced Peter Campbell.
‘It appears that I will be joining you on the trip back to London,’ Peter said.
‘What are you going to do about Alice?’ Ian asked.
‘Alice and I have made our own plans for marriage,’ Peter said quietly with a grin. ‘I did reluctantly examine Charles on a request from Sir Archibald. You certainly did some facial damage that will leave a scar or two. Charles will be devastated; he’s always considered himself as a pretty boy.’
The two men left the house to take the carriage journey back to London on Christmas Day. At least Ian felt the assault on Charles had been worth the cost to his place in the family. He had a family now, and it was the Queen’s army. But Jane was not forgotten. Ian pondered on Jane’s comment as to why she could not leave the village . . . There is one other who holds me to this village who I cannot tell you about. Who did she mean? Ian questioned himself as the carriage made its way through the gently falling snow.
*
Miles away in a London pub, four uniformed soldiers sat around a table in a smoke-filled bar. Privates Curry, Williams and Williams were joined by Colour Sergeant Leslie. The mood was festive and the ale and spirits flowed.
But Conan Curry was not in the mood to celebrate Christmas. He had in his pocket a letter from Molly, smuggled to him through the services of Colour Sergeant Leslie. The traffic of letters had cost in monetary terms, but well worth it to Conan, as a romance blossomed with each one. Colour Sergeant Leslie had taken a liking to the three men he had recruited, but did not let the friendship come between he and his duties as a senior NCO. The Christmas period was a time when a certain amount of fraternisation was allowed, and he shouted the three soldiers a round of ales before he would take his leave from their company.
‘Cheer up, boyo,’ he said to Conan, moping over his tankard of ale. ‘It is a time of goodwill towards all men. I am sorry that you cannot be with your beloved.’ It was no secret that the Irishman from the colonies had a great liking for the sister of the two Welshmen. ‘But, with any luck, this time next year we will be fighting the Muscovites, and that will take your mind off tragic love.’
‘Hear, hear,’ Owen slurred, raising his tankard.
‘To love and war,’ Edwin said, sympathetic to Conan’s growing love of his sister. ‘Maybe Molly might get out early for good behaviour.’
‘That is not likely,’ Owen said. ‘The bloody English don’t like us Welsh much.’
‘Or us Irish,’ Leslie said. ‘But they need us Celts to fight their wars.’
‘We can’t even visit our sister for Christmas. The peelers would pick us up if we did,’ Owen said bitterly. ‘Why do we fight for them?’
‘Because, lad, it is a choice between joining your sister behind bars, or getting three meals a day, pay and a chance to travel to exotic lands to kill the enemies of the Queen,’ Leslie said.
‘Why did you join the regiment, Colour Sergeant?’ Conan asked. Leslie paused for a moment, took a swig of his ale, and turned to Conan.
‘I joined because it was the Queen’s shilling – or possibly the hangman’s noose. The same reasons many of the boys in the regiment are wearing red. That is all you need to know.’
The three soldiers stared at the man who had so much experience and had achieved rank in the British army.
‘Would you have joined up, if you’d had another choice?’ Conan asked.
‘I would, lad,’ the sergeant replied. ‘There is something in a lot of Irishmen and Scotties that I know who are drawn to fighting.’
‘And drinking!’ Edwin added.
‘And waxing lyrical with song,’ Leslie continued. ‘It is just in our souls to fight, and we don’t care with who we do or for who we fight.’
‘I knew a man like that back home in New South Wales,’ Conan said quietly. ‘Not of Irish blood, but a man who felt he was destined to fight under the colours. But as he was a colonial, that opportunity might never present itself.’
‘Ah, his loss for being born a colonial,’ Colour Sergeant Leslie said, sculling down the rest of his ale. ‘It may be his fortune that he is on the other side of the sea, and away from what I think will be a hard-fought campaign against the Tsar and his army. The war coming is nothing like I knew fighting African natives armed with spears and shillalas. This war will mean bayonets and cannon.’
‘The man I speak of is closer than you know,’ Conan said. ‘And I fear he harbours thoughts of killing me when he gets the opportunity.’
‘You speak in riddles, Paddy,’ Owen said with a frown. ‘Who is this man you speak of?’
‘Forget what I just said,’ Conan answered, realising that the ale had loosened his tongue. ‘Let’s raise our tankards to Christmas 1853, and that this time next year we are facing Russian cannon as Colour Sergeant Leslie has promised us. It will mean a year closer to Molly doing her time.’
Silently, the four soldiers raised their tankards. They would return to the barracks that evening, as it was the only home they now knew and the only family they had.
Part Two
Soldiers of the Empire
The Dardanelles and Crimea
1854
Fifteen
The echo of drums and trumpets was long gone in the spring air of the Dardanelles Strait.
C
aptain Ian Steele stood at the railing of the troop ship as it steamed into the cluttered harbour of Gallipoli Village, so far from London. He remembered how, only weeks earlier, the crowds had cheered as they marched in slow time from the regimental barracks, passing Buckingham Palace, and the chaotic scenes at the wharves where women wept for departing husbands, inebriated soldiers sang raucous songs of the coming victory, and vital stores were haphazardly strewn about as senior naval and army non-commissioned officers countermanded each other’s orders. Ian had noticed the chaos, and had a feeling the expedition to oust the Russians from the Crimean Peninsula did not bode well if this is how it had started. Now, he was gazing at the fortifications of medieval times bordering the shore as his ship approached.
Ian reflected on the months since Christmas, and felt a sadness that all his letters to Jane had not been replied to. He had been forced to spend many hours with his company back in the London barracks as they prepared for war, studiously avoiding contact with Private Curry, who in turn did the same.
Young Herbert was proving to be a good officer, caring for the welfare of his men under Ian’s mentorship, and Colour Sergeant Paddie Leslie had been assigned the honour of standing with Lt Forbes and the regimental colours during the future battles they expected to fight. Ian was reassured, as he had faith in the Irish NCO’s battle experience. The membership of the regiment had built a strong bond between he and Herbert, as that which existed between real brothers.
Ian remembered the face of Alice standing beside Peter Campbell as Ian raised his sword in a salute whilst leading his company, and taking the royal salute at Buckingham Palace. Alice had waved with tears in her eyes, and Peter nodded to him with a smile. But then it was time for the command, eyes front, and they were gone from his sight as the regiment continued to the wharves to board the troop ships.
The sun was warm in the cloudless sky, and within a couple of hours, they would disembark at the Ottoman village and march to their camp of white tents on the outskirts of the town, whose population of around thirty thousand Turks, Armenians, Greeks and Jews lived in relative harmony. Ian had read of the town’s history of how it had been in many different hands since the Byzantine Empire. At the entrance to the Black Sea, it was a strategic naval base that controlled the gateway to the Mediterranean Sea. The combined Anglo-French force were to occupy and fortify the ancient defensive ruins, in case of the eventuality of the Russian navy attempting to break out into the seas beyond.
Gallipoli Village was the Ottoman foothold on the European continent after they had eventually defeated the Venetians to occupy the vital port city, now its own sea of ships’ masts from England and France.
The ship was guided to a wharf and the soldiers of Ian’s regiment assembled on the decks to disembark under the control of their company sergeant majors and junior officers. Ian ensured that his personal kit was in good hands of his batman and company clerk before stepping ashore to the sound of orders being bawled. It was a cluttered scene of stores being offloaded and troops attempting to assemble in their platoons and companies.
‘Captain Forbes,’ a voice called in the confusion, and Ian turned to see his friend, Peter Campbell, wearing the uniform of an officer without display of any commissioned rank, waving to him. Ian was surprised at seeing the face he last saw when they marched past Buckingham Palace. He pushed himself through the crowd of dockside workers slaving at piling the military stores.
The two men met with a warm handshake.
‘How the devil did you arrive here before me?’ Ian asked with a broad smile.
‘The advantage of private resources enabled me to arrive before your cumbersome transport ships,’ Peter said. ‘It is good to see your smiling face again, old chap.’
‘How long have you been in this town?’ Ian asked, still a little stunned to see the Canadian.
‘Just under a week. I have already come to learn that you can get drunk here for a few pence, and syphilis for a shilling. I am already contracted to your regiment as the surgeon. I even have a uniform of an officer but, as you can see, I hold no real rank. I have to warn you, cholera is rife here. We have already buried British and French soldiers who have suffered the scourge.’
‘Well, all I can say is that it is grand meeting up with you again. Your support of my application for membership of your club gives me a place to stay in London. Needless to say, I billed all my expenses to a Canadian surgeon with the name of Peter Campbell.’
For a moment Peter blinked his surprise, and then burst into laughter at what he knew was a joke by his close friend. ‘Is young Herbert with you?’ Peter asked, taking Ian by the elbow to guide him from the wharf.
‘Yes, I last saw him tearing his hair out in his attempts to keep his platoon together. We are to march to our encampment as soon as someone finds out where it is.’
‘You are fortunate that I was able to acquire private quarters in the town, above a café,’ Peter said. ‘It will give you a place to go when the army food proves to be atrocious, as I have already seen being rationed out. On the other hand, the local seafood is quite appetising, but the local beverage a bit fiery for my tastes.’
‘I will take you up on your invitation,’ Ian said. ‘Ah, I see my sergeant major requires me,’ Ian said, noticing the company sergeant major waving to him. ‘Just give me the address and if I am able to get time this evening, we will have a meal together.’
‘Good chap,’ Peter said, scribbling down an address and sketchy map. He handed it to Ian, who strode away to join his company.
Within the hour, the colonel had been briefed where he was to quarter his regiment, and the word was passed down to the company commanders. The soldiers were formed up and the band played a cheerful tune as they marched in formation to an area beyond the village, where they went about erecting orderly rows of white conical bell tents beside those of a regiment of French Dragoons. By nightfall, the task was complete, and the colonel had his officers assemble at the tent set out as the officers’ mess.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said, perched on a wooden crate of tinned meat. ‘Welcome to the Ottoman empire of our Muslim allies. With God’s will, we should see action very soon. In the meantime, we have been assigned the task of assisting the engineers to reinforce the stone fortifications around the port in the eventuality that the Tsar takes a liking to the town. Training will continue with drill and small arms practice.’ He continued with a few other matters and when his welcome speech was complete, invited his officers to join him in the mess that evening.
‘Mr Forbes,’ Ian said when he saw Herbert standing amongst the gathered officers. ‘I require your services this evening.’
‘What am I required for, sir?’ he asked with a frown.
‘You are required to accompany me to the town to gather intelligence on the local customs,’ Ian said with a grin. ‘So, we need to change into mufti and sneak away before our absence from the mess is noticed.’
Both men went to their respective tents and changed into civilian clothing. They met up and Ian glanced at the piece of paper Peter had given him that morning. Within the hour, both men were standing in front of a café where men of different nationalities sat drinking coffee and smoking from hookahs. Ian led the mystified young officer up a flight of stairs to a landing, where the wooden door was open into a small but airy room covered with a large colourful Persian rug. The room opened to a balcony above the café.
When Ian and Herbert entered, they were met by a beaming Peter Campbell.
‘Dr Campbell!’ Herbert exclaimed. ‘It is good to see you. So you were the reason for my mysterious order from my brother to gather intelligence.’
‘I suppose you could say that,’ Peter replied. ‘But I also wanted to introduce you to the cuisine of this part of the world. It is different, and I am acquiring a taste for the dishes they serve here. But first, a drink to celebrate our reunion. I brought with me a fine bottle o
f Scotch.’
Peter retrieved a bottle from a small cabinet in the room, pouring three glasses. He led them to his balcony overlooking the narrow street below, filled with traders peddling their wares to colourfully uniformed French soldiers.
The three sat in cane chairs on the balcony as the sun set on a balmy spring evening in the Dardanelles.
‘To a safe return from this campaign,’ Ian said, raising his glass.
‘I suppose I should report to you both what I was privy to whilst at the Reform Club,’ Peter said, gazing at the last rays of the sun over the tiled rooftops of the village. ‘I have great concerns for the management of the coming battle with the Russians. From what I could gather, this has been a poorly planned campaign. The Commissariat has no idea what the army is doing, and without the logistics, no war can be won. The Froggies were allocated the best bivouac sites here, thanks to the incompetence of our own staff.’
‘I noticed when we stopped off at Malta,’ Ian said. ‘It was a case of fending for ourselves.’
‘The army has not any idea of dealing with the sick and wounded either,’ Peter added. ‘We may have the best rifles, but we need an efficient medical and supply system to ensure we win. It is as if we have blundered into this war rather than marched.’
‘But we will beat the Tsar’s army,’ Herbert added optimistically. Neither Peter nor Ian replied.
That evening the three men ate from cracked plates a seafood meal of octopus, shellfish and fillets of fish cooked in olive oil and seasoned with local herbs. Unleavened flat bread was served to accompany the meal, which was followed by sweet and sticky pastry saturated with honey. The meal was washed down with a fiery clear spirit, and the talk turned to more mundane matters of gossip.
At the end of the evening, Ian and Herbert staggered their way back to their lines to sleep off the evening’s meal and drink.