by Peter Watt
‘You would think that there must be another way of fighting a war than just simply lining up, firing a volley, and then charging the enemy ranks,’ Ian said, observing the cloud of gun smoke drifting on the slight breeze of the day.
‘It worked at Waterloo,’ Miles said with a shrug.
‘That was over forty years ago,’ Ian replied. ‘We are now armed with a rifled musket that can fire at an enemy at a greater distance – and with greater accuracy. Why do we still form ranks, exposing ourselves to a volley at close range?’
‘You would need to convince the colonel that we should employ different tactics, if you have any in mind. Alas, I doubt he will listen. He was a young officer at Waterloo.’
‘I know. It is just an idea, but what if we had sections firing while the other sections advanced, like the children’s game of leap frog.’
‘We would lose the concentration of firepower the formed ranks provide,’ Miles said. ‘But we have a rifle that fires further, so maybe we will be able to pour in enough musket balls before the Muscovites can close with us.’
‘I concede your point,’ Ian replied. ‘But I think we are throwing away the advantage our Enfields have over the Russian smoothbore muskets.’
‘When you are a colonel, you can write your own rules on battlefield tactics,’ Miles said. ‘Until then, as commissioned officers of the Queen, we just follow orders. It is as simple as that. Well, I had better join my company, and review their training.’
Ian watched his friend walk down the opposite side of the hill to join his junior officers. Ian sighed, and did the same with his company.
That evening, back in the British lines, Ian went to his tent and saw a letter on the small table in one corner. He picked it up and noticed the English postmark. Very carefully, Ian opened the letter of very thin paper. His hands trembled as he read the words so finely written in beautiful copperplate.
My Dearest,
I have not replied to the letters you have sent me until I was sure that the voice from the stone circle had told me of our fates. The spirits of the ancient ones have blessed us. I carry your child within my body.
I do not know if you welcome this news. I do know that I love you with my heart and soul but do not expect anything from you other than that you also love me.
My wish is that when you return to England that you may hold in your arms the result of the union of you and I.
I promise that I will reply to all your correspondence from this day on and pray that you may remain safe in the world of blood and ice that the ancient ones from the other world have given me the vision to see when we were together.
I am counting the days, hours and minutes before you return.
With all the love in my heart and soul,
Jane
Ian read the letter three times. Each time lingering on words and phrases. He carefully folded the letter and placed it on the table, as if it were an offering on a church altar. So that was it! He was now to be a father. When Ian stepped from his tent to join his fellow officers in the mess, he felt as if he was walking on air. He also felt exasperated that he could not tell Jane this very moment how happy he was. It would take a letter and many weeks before one would reach her. At least then she would know how thrilled he was about her pregnancy.
New tactics were forgotten as all he thought about was whether he would be the father to a boy or girl.
Even as Ian revelled in his new status, a stable boy found a blood-stained jacket under a pile of straw. He lifted the jacket and, in his horror, recognised it as belonging to Master Charles. It terrified him, and he did not know if he should tell Master Charles of the discovery. Something told him that option was not a good one. The boy wrapped the jacket in a hessian cloth bag and found a place in the stables where he knew some planks were loose. The boy peeled away a plank, placed the bag in a space between the walls, and sealed it again.
That night, Charles came awake in a cold sweat in his bed. The coat! He had forgotten to retrieve it from under the straw in the stables. He quickly dressed, and went with a lantern to the stables, but when he searched for the incriminating evidence, it was gone!
Charles knelt by the pile of straw with the lantern, scratching amongst the dry stalks. It was obvious that someone had found the jacket, but he knew if he asked too many questions, it would draw attention to its existence. In the distance, an owl hooted, as if mocking him. Charles felt a chill of fear. It only took one thing to go wrong to reveal his role in Jane’s murder, and that only reinforced the urgency to have his half-brother eliminated before he could ever find out about Charles’ treachery.
That night, Charles tossed and turned, his dreams filled with the image of the stone circle’s magic, and its curse upon him, as Jane reached up to claw him into the earth with her and her unborn child.
Seventeen
Ian wrote religiously each week to Jane, but there was no reply to his letters. Ian was confused, because she had informed him of her pregnancy and how she would keep in contact by mail. In desperation, Ian wrote to Alice, and in her reply, she said that she was informed by Charles that Jane had moved to London and her whereabouts unknown.
The information concerned Ian as she had been quite adamant she had to stay in the village of her birth. The dark hole the silence created drew Ian into despair.
To alleviate his despair, Ian threw himself into personally supervising the training of his company. His involvement was noted by his fellow officers, who remarked to him that the senior NCOs were the best people to run the day to day administration of the regiment. Their job as officers was simply to lead their men into battle. Ian did not agree; he had the opinion that the men must have a personal respect for their leaders and, as such, should be seen as much as possible amongst them. He encouraged his young lieutenants to follow his example. The old timers of the regiment wondered what was happening. However, the men who had not seen military campaigns yet, appreciated the concern shown by their officers. All young officers in his company attempted to practise this new kind of leadership, but one junior officer made it known the company commander was breaking the natural order of military protocol. Lieutenant Jenkins made his concern known to Herbert, knowing that he was the brother of their company commander. Jenkins was a handsome officer in his mid-twenties and the only son whose very wealthy family was well-known, with a social pedigree in the best aristocratic circles of London. He was lazy and arrogant to boot, and saw the campaign as a temporary measure to enhance his reputation before one day taking his seat in the House of Lords when his father passed. The army was only a stepping stone to his future aspirations in politics.
Ian would ensure that he visited the sick at the old Turkish barracks, now used as a hospital, and encouraged his officers to make a habit of learning about each and every man under their command. When Ian learned of his junior officer’s contempt for him, he offered a transfer to another company, but the colonel refused Ian’s request. Ian was stuck with Jenkins. Under duress, Jenkins reluctantly accepted Ian’s authority, for the moment. For the young English nobleman, war was simply a game – like fox hunting with the hounds.
Private Curry was a member of Herbert’s command, and Ian was forced to come in contact with him as he supervised the training of the company. Whenever this situation occurred, Conan made no sign that he personally knew Ian, and the oath he swore when he thought he was dying seemed to be holding. It was an uneasy truce between soldier and officer.
The illness that racked the British and French soldiers followed them when the regiment was shipped to the Black Sea coastal town of Varna, Bulgaria. After disembarking from their ships, the regiment was marched eight miles inland to camp on the shores of the picturesque lake at Alladyn.
At first, Dr Campbell had hoped the change from Gallipoli might act to improve the health of the soldiers, as the location near the lake appeared clean. But at night, the mist
could be seen rising from the lake, and soon he was treating soldiers for severe diarrhoea. Soldiers appeared to be feeling constant nausea and lassitude. The tent he had set up as his place of treatment was overcrowded, with men laying on the earthen floor.
Then a hot wind from the west blew a white dust of eroded limestone over the camp, covering food, and the men, with a fine white powder. Cholera returned with a vengeance, first to the French army and, a few days later, to the British. Moving the camp did not help with the climbing rate of serious illness.
Ian noted how those he saw around the camp appeared languid, gloomy and very pale under the fierce, summer sun. Even Lord Raglan was not in much better condition, and it was said that the quartermaster-general, Lord de Ros, was a complete wreck.
Ian had observed Dr Campbell’s suggestion that he boil any drinking water, and Ian enforced the rule on his company with the threat of fifty lashes for breaking it. The rate of sickness fell amongst his troops compared to the other companies of the regiment.
Ian walked the rows of white tents, observing the dire conditions both officers and men were subjected to. Flies, gnats and brown beetles swarmed the camp, settling on scraps of meat discarded by soldiers too weak to eat, and the stench of human waste pervaded the hot dry air as latrines overflowed. The rotting corpses of animals added to the hellish conditions, and adding to the misery was the appearance of lice and very big rats.
‘Sir, may I speak with you?’ It was Colour Sergeant Leslie.
‘Yes, Colour Sergeant,’ Ian replied.
‘Mr Herbert has been taken to the hospital. I fear that he has the cholera.’
‘Thank you, Colour Sergeant,’ Ian said and went quickly to the makeshift hospital, packed with both British and French soldiers. The old veterans paid to be ambulance attendants were in no better condition than the men they were supposed to convey to the hospital. As many did not come out of the hospital alive, many of the troops preferred to hide their symptoms.
Ian arrived to see the carts lined in rows with their deathly ill patients awaiting space inside the former Turkish barracks. It was a great rectangular building very much in disrepair, with a courtyard. Ian was assailed by the stench of suffering of the sick soldiers, and could hear the unending groans of the soldiers laying on the floor. He was met by Peter.
‘Damned bad show,’ Peter sighed when he saw Ian. ‘You will find young Herbert just down the first row. I ensured that he has a comfortable mat of straw, and pray that his youth may help him survive.’
Ian found Herbert laying on his back, staring with feverish eyes at the ceiling. Ian knelt beside him and took his hand. It appeared that Herbert was not even aware of his presence.
‘Hang on, old chap,’ Ian said gently. ‘You will get better.’
Herbert seemed to focus for a moment. ‘It was not meant to be like this,’ he said through parched lips. ‘We are all dying, and I know this is not meant to be. War is not meant to be shitting yourself to death. A soldier dies facing his enemy. Oh, Sam, I want to go home.’
Ian secretly agreed with the young officer. Why was it that the British army was to be wasted by disease without even seeing the Russian army? The war was see-sawing. The Russians had been defeated at Giurgevo but, in turn, had defeated the Turks at Bayezid in Asia Minor. The British naval bombardment at Petropaulovsk had failed, and the war was now being lost to the unseen enemy of disease. From local knowledge, Ian had been able to learn that the hot, dry summers of this part of the world were followed by freezing cold and wet winters. It was now turning to autumn, and the British armies had yet to engage the enemy. As he knelt beside Herbert, Ian remembered his promise to Alice to keep her beloved young brother alive.
Ian turned to Peter, standing beside him. ‘What can I do to help Herbert?’ he pleaded.
‘What would help is if you could find someone to sit with him,’ Peter replied. ‘One of his soldiers to ensure that Herbert receives clean water and sponging down when the fever is on him. I know his men have a respect and liking for him.’
Ian rose from beside Herbert. ‘I will look to that matter directly,’ he said as he left. He found Colour Sergeant Leslie hovering outside.
‘Colour Sergeant, we will go to Mr Herbert’s lines and request a volunteer – no – we will need three volunteers, if Mr Herbert is to be attended twenty-four hours a day, until he is well enough to leave that pestilent place.’
‘Yes, sah,’ Leslie replied, and the two men walked through the dusty camp site until they reached Herbert’s platoon area. There they found three familiar soldiers sharing a large bottle of brandy. They rose unsteadily to their feet at Ian’s approach, and Conan attempted a feeble salute.
‘As you were,’ Ian said, returning the salute. ‘How much did that brandy cost you?’ Ian asked the anxious-looking soldiers.
‘Three shillings and sixpence, sir,’ Conan replied. ‘Some say brandy will ward off the cholera. The Froggies are coming down with the sickness because they drink their cheap wine.’
‘I am not sure if Dr Campbell would agree,’ Ian said with a wry smile. ‘I will pay you each three shillings and sixpence if you are prepared to carry out a mission, sitting with Mr Herbert in the hospital.’ Edwin, Owen and Conan looked at each other, and Ian knew the request was asking a lot of the men who had a dread of being counted amongst the sick.
‘We will do it,’ Conan answered firmly. ‘But not for the money. Mr Herbert is a good officer, and we don’t want to lose him.’
Ian was taken by surprise by Conan’s refusal to take money for services rendered in the hell house. The two men exchanged looks, and Ian could see almost a plea to be allowed to redeem himself in Ian’s eyes.
‘Very well, Private Curry. Arrange amongst yourselves to divide the time into three so that you are by Mr Herbert’s side for the complete day. Dr Campbell will give you orders on how to care for him. I am sure if anyone can keep him alive, it will be you three.’
‘Yes, sir, we will,’ Conan said.
‘Very well, you men report now to the hospital,’ Colour Sergeant Leslie said, taking command, as was his duty.
The three men were about to leave with the colour sergeant when Ian said, ‘Private Curry, a word with you alone.’
Edwin and Owen glanced at each other and Conan. Ian walked away with Conan to a distance where they could not be overheard.
‘Conan, if you can help Mr Herbert recover, I will be eternally grateful, and feel that what you told me when you thought you might die to be the truth about my mother’s death at the hand of Kevin – and not you, I feel then that we can go on with our lives.’
‘Sir, I swear even today that I would have stopped my brother if I could, and rue the day we stole your money. I wish I could turn back time, as your ma was a wonderful woman to all of us when we were growing up.’
‘God will be your judge in the end,’ Ian said.
‘Mr Herbert is not your real brother, is he sir?’ Conan said quietly.
‘As you and I know, he is not, but he has grown to be as close as a brother I could have ever had, and I swore to protect him.’
Conan looked down at the ground. ‘There is something else I should mention,’ he said. ‘As you know, me and the Williams brothers robbed Dr Campbell back before we signed up for the regiment.’
‘Dr Campbell has already expressed his suspicions to me,’ Ian said. ‘That is a matter between you and he. But, knowing the doctor as I do, if you do a good job I am sure he will put the matter in the past.’
As the days went by, the three soldiers undertook to be by Herbert’s side as he lay in the hospital, feeding him small amounts of water laced with sugar, per Dr Campbell’s instructions. Eventually, Herbert showed signs of recovery, and it was while Conan was on his shift in the early hours of the morning that Peter Campbell joined him with a lantern.
‘You three men have done an exemplary dut
y caring for Mr Herbert,’ he said as the pale light of the lantern illuminated Herbert sleeping peacefully.
‘Thank you, sir,’ Conan said wearily. The harsh conditions were taking a toll on his health, and he remembered vividly his scrape with death back at the Gallipoli village. ‘Sir, there is something I feel I must confess to you.’
‘What is that, Private Curry?’ Peter asked.
‘It was me, Edwin and Owen who robbed you back in London.’
‘I can also confess that I already knew that,’ Peter said.
‘How is it that you did not put us into the peelers?’ Conan asked.
‘Considering where we are, and what we have faced so far, I doubt the courts could have sentenced you to anything worse than this. In my opinion, what you have done for Mr Herbert more than compensates for your treatment of me in London. Your secret is safe with me.’
‘Sir, if I may be bold enough to ask a great favour?’ Conan said.
‘What favour, Private Curry?’
‘A certain lady was arrested in London for the crime we were responsible for, and sentenced to five years hard labour. Her name is Molly and she is a good girl, and sister to Edwin and Owen. I was wondering if you could put in a good word to the judges to have her released.’
‘You are asking a lot for a matter I doubt I can influence,’ Peter replied.
‘Sir, I will pay every penny of my pay if that helps, and I am sure so will Edwin and Owen.’
‘It is not the matter of the money,’ Peter said. ‘It is a matter of convincing the judicial system to contemplate a pardon.’
‘You are a man of good breeding, even if you are a Canadian. I am sure the judges would listen to you,’ Conan pleaded.
‘I will consider what you have asked, Private Curry,’ Peter said. ‘In the meantime, you can resume caring for Mr Herbert, who I hope I will be able to discharge in the morning. I thank you for your fine service, and put it to you that you remain with me to assist other sick soldiers.’