by Peter Watt
‘Sir, I thank you for your offer with humble gratitude, but I am an infantryman, and my duty is to fight the Russians alongside my comrades.’
‘I thought you might say that,’ Peter smiled. ‘But the offer remains, if you change your mind. I am sure Mr Herbert would agree with me. You strike me as an intelligent man with a good soul, despite your past misdeeds.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Conan replied, surprised that this man would be so forgiving.
The doctor left with his lantern, leaving Conan alone with a mere candle to light the dark night. Conan’s thoughts were in turmoil. He had asked a great favour of the man he had once robbed at knifepoint, and yet the man had forgiven him and the Williams brothers. That would not have happened if they were civilians back in London and, for the first time, the colonial Irishman truly understood the meaning of brotherhood amongst soldiers. The robbery paled into insignificance when they all faced death from the unseen enemy of disease. They were already in hell, and only had each other to rely on if they were to survive. Lieutenant Herbert, who lay on the floor, was a living example of how the bond was stronger than all Conan had known before. Without the scum of the earth nursing him, the young man before Conan would not have lived. This was the way of soldiers.
Eighteen
The hot wind continued to blow through the British encampment. Morale was low, and Ian could see the effect it was having on his fellow officers. A directive was issued that civilian clothing was not to be worn by officers, and orders were posted that any looting of the local population was a capital offence. Furthermore, no one was to stray further than a mile from camp. This offence was to be punished by flogging.
Ian adhered to the rules and ensured his company also did. He caught one of the junior lieutenants slouching around the officers’ tents with his buttons undone on his jacket, and wearing a turban around his forage cap.
‘Mr Jenkins, you are not regimentally dressed,’ Ian said as the officer stood to attention before him. ‘You will do up your buttons and remove that foreign headdress. It is up to you to set an example to your men.’
‘With respect, do you know who you dare to speak to with such harsh words?’ Jenkins said in a surly tone. ‘I am not one of your private soldiers.’
‘I know of your family connections, Mr Jenkins, and care not for them. At the moment, you are an officer of one of the finest regiments in the Queen’s army, and will act as her officer.’
‘It is said around the camp that you spent too much time in the colonies. The men call you the Queen’s colonial,’ Jenkins retorted. ‘It is not your place to chastise me.’
Ian could hardly believe what he was hearing from this junior officer. It was outright insolence. However, he also realised the army carried with it a class system where gentlemen did not criticise other gentlemen. It was condoned to punish soldiers with severe discipline but not officers. Ian also accepted that if he reported the insolent young lieutenant’s attitude to the regimental colonel, it would possibly be seen as his lack of command over his own officers.
‘Maybe I should organise to meet with you tonight, just outside the lines, and have this conversation again,’ Ian said, leaning forward into Jenkins’ face with a menace that could not be mistaken.
‘Are you offering me violence?’ Jenkins asked in a frightened voice. He was aware how solidly built his superior officer was, and had heard a whispered rumour of how he and Dr Campbell had killed a man in London before the regiment steamed to the Dardanelles.
‘More a lesson in discipline at the end of my fists,’ Ian said quietly. ‘Your choice.’
Jenkins immediately buttoned his jacket and removed the turban.
‘Good,’ Ian grunted. ‘You are dismissed to your duties.’
Jenkins stepped back and saluted before scurrying away. Ian watched the officer depart and sighed. If they remained any longer in the Varna region, they were all likely to die of disease. Ian found the harsh climate very much like that he knew in the peak of summer in New South Wales, but it was foreign to the bulk of the troops in the regiment.
In the first week of August, the hot weather broke, but the cholera continued claiming lives amongst French and British troops. In that same week, a fire on the docks at Varna destroyed thousands of pounds of critical military stores, and over one hundred and fifty tons of army biscuits. That same day, eighty men of the elite Coldstream guards died of cholera.
Herbert had rejoined his men, and the colour returned to his cheeks, which were showing the first signs of fuzz. He and Ian sat outside Ian’s tent by a small fire, drinking tea from enamel mugs. They sat under a moonless night sky where the stars shimmered in the chilly air. It was a rare moment of peace away from the routine of the day in camp, where much time was spent assisting in the burial of soldiers who had succumbed to cholera from the regiment. Happily, not as many from Ian’s company.
‘Will we ever leave this accursed place, Sam?’ Herbert asked.
Ian gazed into the night life of the camp, where lanterns burned to illuminate the men’s tents. He could hear their subdued talk, and nearby, a fiddle screeched a melancholy tune.
‘The bloody navy are the only ones seeing any action at the moment,’ Ian said, sipping his sweet, black tea.
‘I heard that they failed at Petropaulovsk,’ Herbert said. ‘That does not bode well.’
‘We will get our turn to prove the might of the British Empire soon,’ Ian said as a shooting star slashed the sky above. ‘The colonel thinks we might be embarking for the Crimea as early as three weeks’ time.’
‘Anywhere has to be better than here,’ Herbert sighed.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ The voice of Peter Campbell came from the dark as he approached. ‘I brought some medicine for us.’ Peter produced a silver flask and Ian could smell brandy, which was promptly poured into their now empty tea mugs. ‘The troops swear it is the only thing to ward off cholera.’
‘To our health,’ Ian said, raising his mug in a toast, and Peter took a swig from his flask, settling down on a spare camp stool.
‘What brings you to my humble abode?’ Ian asked with a smile. The brandy was filling his veins with its fiery, magical glow.
‘Oh, just on my rounds to visit former patients,’ Peter said, staring into the flickering flames of the campfire. ‘How are you feeling, Herbert?’
‘Very well, Dr Campbell, thanks to you.’
‘Thank the three soldiers of your unit who took turns nursing you back to health. I wish I had more like them to help me.’
‘Ah, Private Curry and the Williams brothers,’ Ian said. ‘From what I have observed, they have shaped up to be damned good soldiers.’
‘Rather ironic when you consider the three once held me at knifepoint,’ Peter said. ‘A matter in which I have informed Private Curry that I forgive them, considering the situation we are in here at Varna. I think just by being here they have paid their penance for past transgressions.’
Ian nodded.
‘That Private Curry is a cheeky lad,’ Peter continued. ‘He has requested that I intervene to have a lady friend paroled or pardoned, who also happens to be the sister of the Williams brothers. It appears the police found her in possession of my medical bag when she was arrested. I cannot see how I can help her, even if I wanted to.’
‘Do you want to comply with the request?’ Ian asked.
‘I would like to, old chap. I feel that what has happened in the past is a ghost of events. The men have proved themselves, and I feel they deserve some reward.’
‘Did you not visit the tenements of the poor on your rounds?’ Ian said. ‘Is it possible that you mislaid your medical bag and later, being confused by the trauma of the previous robbery, forget you had left your bag in the lady’s house?’
Peter stared at Ian and blinked. ‘Your time in the colony of New South Wales has made you as devious as those th
at England sent there in chains,’ he said. ‘Would such a preposterous explanation gain the freedom of this poor woman?’
‘If the request for her freedom was delivered to the right authorities, through Alice, who is your fiancée,’ Herbert piped in. ‘It would have to have some standing.’
‘Herbert is right,’ Ian agreed. ‘You have nothing to lose, and I am sure your gesture would be greatly appreciated by the Williams brothers.’
‘I suppose it is the least I can do,’ Peter said. ‘We will do it.’
A shower of shooting stars criss-crossed the night sky as the three men finished the remains of the Canadian doctor’s supply of medicine.
*
‘Dr Campbell would do this for us, sir?’ Edwin asked as he and his brother stood before Herbert in his tent.
‘He will, but I cannot promise he will be successful.’
‘Sir, I cannot thank Dr Campbell enough,’ Owen said. ‘If there is anything we can do for the doctor?’
‘Just promise never to rob him again,’ Herbert said with a wry smile. ‘And you can also be grateful to Captain Forbes. It is he who proposed a plan to free your sister.’
‘Sir, we will,’ Owen said.
‘If there is nothing more, you are dismissed to your duties.’
The two soldiers provided the best salute they had ever presented before leaving the tent to hurry to Conan, who was washing his uniform clothing in a tub of lye soap in an attempt to kill the lice infesting it.
‘Paddy, good news!’ Owen said as they approached him. ‘Doc Campbell is going to try and free Molly.’
Stripped to his waist, Conan looked up from his task. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.
‘Doc Campbell is going to write to the judge to ask for a release on the grounds that Molly was not in fact in receipt of stolen property. If it works, Molly will be out. Captain Forbes had a big hand in working out how they would free Molly.’
Conan rose from the wash tub and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. ‘He’s a good officer,’ Conan said. ‘I would follow him into hell if he ordered so.’
‘We have a good officer in Mr Herbert, too,’ Owen said, and Edwin nodded.
No matter how bad the conditions were in Varna, a small ray of hope penetrated the ever-present white dust that made life miserable. Molly’s freedom meant everything to the three soldiers on the other side of Europe.
*
Ian’s enemies were gathering.
‘Old chap, I am not sure if you were aware that Mr Jenkins has approached me with a request to transfer to my company,’ Miles said as the two men sat at a dining table in the officers’ mess. Breakfast was over, and they were alone.
‘That does not surprise me,’ Ian said. ‘I will gladly agree to his posting to your company.’
‘I don’t want him,’ Sinclair said. ‘He is an incompetent officer and should never have been commissioned. But, alas, his family connections make him a dangerous man. I have heard it rumoured that his family are about to pay for a captain’s commission in the regiment.’
‘God almighty! Why don’t we have a commission system similar to the engineers and artillery, where a man is judged on his merit and not birthright to leadership positions?’
‘Because men like you and I would not be where we are now, and families of social standing would be denied the God-given opportunity of ridding themselves of second sons,’ Miles said. ‘That was the situation in my family, as I know it was in your own.’
‘At least it was something I desired,’ Ian said. ‘But, as we stagnate here, I wonder if I will ever get to prove myself.’
‘Just keeping your company alive under the current conditions is the mark of a good officer, and from what I have seen of your men and heard around the campfires, you have succeeded in doing that. I would not doubt your ability to command what Wellington once called the scum of the earth. Having said that, you can keep Mr Jenkins, old chap.’
‘I am aware that he spread word that I was not a fit and proper officer to be in the regiment,’ Ian said. ‘I am also aware he has complained of me directly to the colonel.’
‘I was present at the meeting,’ Miles said, drawing tobacco from a pouch and rolling it in some scrap paper. It was something new to the British troops, who smoked pipes or ready-prepared cigars. There was a new term for this item of tobacco rolled in paper – cigarette. ‘When Jenkins left the meeting, the colonel asked my opinion, and I supported you. I am sure that you have the colonel’s backing.’
‘My gratitude for your speaking up for me,’ Ian said.
‘I suppose you know that you are known as the Queen’s colonial in the lines,’ Miles said, lighting up the end of the paper and drawing in the smoke.
‘I have, and wondered why.’
‘You still have your colonial accent, and there is something different about you in the way you treat your men. They actually feel an affinity to your style of command, as if you care for their wellbeing. Dare I say, they even think you could have been born of their class,’ Miles said. ‘From my experience, your men will serve well when we finally face the Muscovites on the battlefield, because they know you lead them. As a matter of fact, I heard a rumour in my company that a Private Curry gave one of Mr Jenkins’ platoon a thrashing when the soldier complained about you. He said that you did not act like a proper officer.’
‘He did!’ Ian exclaimed, surprised, but pleased to hear the account.
‘Ah, but that was to be expected when I also heard the Irishman was a former colonial from New South Wales,’ Miles said with a smile. ‘You colonials stick together. But it is about time I go and confer with my sergeant major as to the state of the company. It has been rather pleasant chatting with you, old boy.’
Captain Sinclair rose from the table, stubbed out his handmade cigarette and departed the officers’ mess tent. Ian was left with thoughts about what was to come. It appeared his secret was safe with Conan Curry, and Ian hoped that Miles’ company would be shoulder to shoulder with his own when the time came to face the might of the Russian army. What Ian had gleaned from many books on military strategy would be supplemented by learning from this British officer who had actually faced death on the Queen’s far-flung battlefields. He just hoped that the same apparent dedication to professional soldiering was common to those generals under whose command the regiments of the British army lay. Ian would be bitterly disappointed in the months ahead.
Nineteen
A secret reconnaissance had been carried out of the Crimean Peninsula by high-ranking British and French officers aboard the HMS Fury. The decision was to land troops at a place called Eupatoria, forty-five miles north of the target of the heavily fortified port of Sebastopol. But they also realised the army advancing on the Russian port would have to cross four rivers; the Alma, the Katscha, the Belbeck and the Tchernaya. Between the rivers lay four ranges of hills of varying heights and steepness.
*
‘Is it true?’ Herbert asked in his excitement. ‘We are embarking from this damned valley of death for the Crimea?’
‘It is,’ Ian replied, packing a few belongings into a leather bag. ‘Inform the company sergeant major to assemble the company, and inform them to pack, strike tents and be ready to board ship within the next twelve hours. We have been detailed to be amongst the first to leave.’
The excitement was apparent as the order was given and the troops realised that they just might be leaving the dreaded scourge of cholera behind them as they were shipped across the Black Sea to finally confront the Russian army.
Ian had a moment to reflect on what they would encounter when they finally confronted the Russian army. He sat on his bag, staring through the tent flap at one of the few soldier’s wives organising to have her laundry tub loaded onto an ox cart. In his own company, he had only three soldier’s wives permitted by a lottery to travel with their hu
sbands. The wives faced the same hardships as the men they were married to, and made a small allowance acting as cooks, laundresses and occasionally nursing the sick. Whenever Ian came into contact with them, he was always kind, especially to Corporal Hunt’s very pregnant wife. She somehow reminded him of Jane, who he had still not heard from. There was the possibility that Mary Hunt would have her baby delivered on some battlefield, as had been the lot of soldier’s wives in past campaigns.
Within weeks, maybe even days, he would be leading his company into battle, and Ian suddenly experienced a chill of doubt. Despite his soldiers and fellow officers considering him a veteran from the New Zealand troubles, he had never actually faced the complexities of a real war. What if he allowed fear to dominate, and led his men poorly? What if he was incompetent and his men died for his stupidity? All he really had was a thorough academic learning of warfare; he had no practical experience, like Captain Miles Sinclair. He knew he was a fraud, but prayed that what was ahead might make him a man his father would have been proud of.
‘Mr Herbert sent us to help you break camp, sir. Get your kit on one of the carts heading for the harbour.’
Private Edwin Williams’ voice broke his inner thoughts and he rose to take the salute from the Welsh soldier, who was accompanied by his brother.
‘Very good, Private Williams,’ Ian said. ‘Carry on.’
The two soldiers set about striking Ian’s tent, loading all onto a nearby ox-drawn cart. It was time for Ian to walk amongst the men of his company, offering words of cheer and ensuring that they were in good spirits. In Ian’s opinion, that was the job of an officer.
Ian was in the lines when he noticed a bearded man in civilian dress scribbling notes on a small pad.
‘Who, may I ask, are you, sir?’ Ian asked when he approached the man.
‘Ah, you must be Captain Samuel Forbes who I have heard many good things about,’ the civilian answered with a disarming smile. ‘I am William Russell, special correspondent for The Times. I suppose you can say that I am a queer beast with the army.’