The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  ‘I must say that I have also heard of you, Mr Russell,’ Ian said. ‘I have even read your dispatches in The Times and agree with your observations on the unreadiness of our army to fight this war.’

  ‘It will only be the fortitude of these men around us who will overcome the disgrace of the political organisation – or, should I say, the lack of political support for our army. Very soon, we shall be facing the might of Tsar Nicholas and from what I have gleaned from talking to your men, I have great confidence that your company will acquit itself when that times comes.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Russell, for your confidence in my company, but I am sure the regiment will give an overall good showing when the time comes,’ Ian said, pleased at hearing the war correspondent’s praise for his leadership.

  ‘Well, I feel I should amble off to the docks to observe the embarkations,’ Russell said. ‘We may bump into each other in Crimea.’

  ‘I look forward to that eventuality, Mr Russell,’ Ian said, and the journalist walked away to continue his notetaking, leaving Ian with a feeling that he had just met a man who might be useful for the future fortunes of the army.

  *

  Sir Archibald sat in his favourite leather chair in his London residence, with his favourite journal before him, The Times. The articles from the war correspondent were disparaging of the British government concerning its conduct in the campaign to date. Sir Archibald felt that the war correspondent was a traitor for his views, and should promptly be shot by the army.

  ‘Good evening to you, Father,’ Charles said when he entered the room. ‘I trust that the board meeting at the bank went well?’

  ‘Damned war is going to cost the country a lot of money,’ Archibald growled.

  Charles poured himself a cup of tea from the set laid out on an ornate sideboard. ‘We are making a lot of money out of the war,’ he said. ‘Why should we bother how much it costs the country?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose you are right,’ his father agreed. ‘I stopped by the club on the way home and had an interesting conversation with Lord Jenkins.’

  ‘Jenkins?’ Charles quizzed, sipping from his tea as he stood close to the open fire. The chill of winter was already settling on London.

  ‘His son is an ensign in Samuel’s company.’

  ‘They are called lieutenants in the infantry regiments,’ Charles corrected. ‘But carry on.’

  ‘It seems that his son has been corresponding from some place on the Black Sea that Samuel is proving to be a tyrannical and incompetent officer. Even offered violence to him.’

  ‘Incompetency is not an unknown quality for many of our commissioned officers,’ Charles said, balancing the delicate tea cup in his hand. ‘But offering violence to a junior officer is something else. I always remembered Samuel as a meek and mild-mannered boy before he was sent to the colonies. Your brother, Sir George, has a lot to answer for, mentoring a brute such as Samuel.’

  ‘I would be wary of Samuel’s return if I were you, Charles,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘He is sure to go seeking the whereabouts of that wretched woman you were having an affair with.’

  Charles paused, and despite the warmth of the billiard room, he felt a chill. His half-brother had already proved to be a resourceful and dangerous man. The greatest hope was that Samuel would be killed fighting the Russians, or taken by cholera. At least, as his father had informed him, Samuel was making enemies in his own camp. It was now essential that Samuel be eliminated from the family, no matter what it would cost. By the time Charles went to finish his cup of tea, it had gone very cold. But a thought came to him: the enemy of my enemy is my friend. The name Jenkins stayed with Charles.

  *

  September 1854, and the fleet transporting the British army to the Crimea steamed towards the shoreline of Calamita Bay. It was a beautiful sunny day and Ian Steele breathed in the fresh air from the deck of his ship. When he gazed at the coast he could see flocks of wildfowl, farmhouses and one or two farm carts on the narrow road. In the distance on the skyline Ian could vaguely make out mounted Cossacks watching them steam into the bay from their hilltop vantage point.

  Beside them, the French fleet disembarked their troops first onto the beach. Bayonets shone in rows as the soldiers assembled on the busy beach, now being covered with military stores.

  Ian watched as the NCOs barked orders to the men of the regiment as each climbed down into a navy row boat. Ian was in full regimental dress. He carried ration supplies in a haversack of four pounds of salt meat and biscuits. He also carried his greatcoat, fastened in a hoop around his body, a wooden canteen with his drinking water, and a small container of spirits. Ian also had his revolver strapped to his waist.

  Before disembarking, Ian had ensured that every soldier was outfitted with the same amount of rations that he intended to last for three days. They also carried a greatcoat strapped into a knapsack. Each soldier also carried an item of the cooking utensils, and his armaments of firelock, bayonet and cartouche-box containing fifty rounds of cartridges of Minie bullets for their Enfield rifled muskets.

  Dr Peter Campbell appeared alongside Ian. He was not armed and carried his medical bag. He greeted his friend. ‘Damned good to not be eating salt pork and biscuits tonight. At least a change of diet to salt beef.’

  ‘Do you see those Muscovites on the high ground?’ Ian said. ‘This is the first time we have even seen the enemy since we declared war against them six months ago. All we did was sit around and watch the regiment become severely depleted by bloody cholera while the politicians dithered about what we should do. The whole thing has been a shambles from the start.’

  ‘Don’t worry, old chap,’ Peter said, patting Ian on the shoulder. ‘You and your chaps will soon enough send them running using those fancy rifles you have been issued, while I will be using my surgical skills rather than nursing disease-ravaged men. We both get to use the talents we have been trained for.’

  ‘Well, time to go ashore and admire the beauty of this place,’ Ian said as the sailors in the rowboats beckoned to them. Ian was happy to be off the Royal Navy ship and going ashore to finally confront both his internal fears and the enemy. But as he did, he still experienced the nagging fear of the silence from Jane, supposedly in London, carrying their child. Ian knew that she must be close to giving birth. Meanwhile, his thoughts had to be for the welfare of the company of infantrymen he commanded. They too, had families, and it was his job to kill the enemy while keeping his own men alive.

  It was with high spirits that Ian and his company landed on the Crimean beach, but Ian groaned in despair when his quartermaster informed him the tents had not been unloaded from the ships offshore. Cholera-ravaged soldiers lay in the open and, as night approached, the sky was filled with black clouds, and the wind picked up. Then came the rain in cold torrents, soaking the twenty-seven thousand British troops and their French allies, huddling in misery under their water-soaked greatcoats and blankets. Even the highest-ranking officers were forced to share the same miserable conditions as their men, and as Ian shivered in the cold, his doubts about the competency of how the campaign was being managed were reinforced. There was no fire to warm and dry them, nor was there a promise of breakfast under the current conditions. In the distance, Ian could hear the sound of the naval ships’ bells, and quipped to Herbert beside him, ‘We should have joined the bloody navy. At least they are out of this damned infernal rain. Even the bloody Froggies were sensible enough to land their tents. Even the Turks have shelter. If the Muscovites decide to attack us now, I suspect that for the promise of a tot of rum and a warm, dry bed, our men would surrender.’

  Herbert did not reply to Ian’s bitter statement but simply tried to stop shivering so violently. Peter stumbled through the torrential rain, looming out of the night to settle himself down beside Ian and Herbert. He wrapped himself in his heavy, water-sodden greatcoat.

  ‘I just came fro
m meeting a remarkable chap, Mr William Russell,’ he said.

  ‘I have already met our man from The Times,’ Ian replied. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He was sheltering under a horse cart with half the brigade staff,’ Peter said. ‘Mr Russell informed me that he will be reporting the conditions here to his readers as soon as he can have his communiques telegraphed out. I hope there are some in our old club who will be reading them, and possibly using their considerable influence to rectify this whole bungled war.’

  Ian hoped his friend was right. ‘Hope they feel moved enough to send us a crate of brandy.’

  When the morning finally arrived, so did a searing sun, drying out the stores and men on the edge of the bay. But it also helped dry up the drinking water, of which there was already an acute shortage. Life for the army swung between extremes, and morale was low. For two days, while the confusion was being sorted out, the Russian Cossacks on the high ground above the beach simply noted the disposition of the Allied units, and number of troops.

  At night, Ian and his men observed the glow of burning villages and crops beyond the beach. The Russian army was employing tactics they had used against Napoleon when he invaded their country almost a half century before. They were carrying out a scorched earth policy to meet the armies, who would surely begin an advance westwards, towards Sebastopol.

  *

  In London, Alice Forbes was surprised to find two letters arrive from the Eastern war front. She had been excited to recognise her beloved Dr Campbell’s handwriting, and his letter overflowing of love and yearning, which ended in instructions for her to deliver the enclosed sealed letter to a learned judge he knew from the Reform Club. He had written that it was an attempt to free a woman from gaol who had been connected to the robbery upon him. Alice was puzzled, but personally delivered the letter as per the instructions the next day. It was handed to the doorman at the club, who promised to ensure the letter was personally handed to the judge. Alice departed in her carriage, wondering why Peter would plead for the release of a woman connected to the robbery upon him months earlier.

  A week later, Alice received a visit from a law clerk who informed her that the matter Dr Campbell had raised concerning the innocence of one Molly Williams had been considered, and that the courts had decided to release her with a special pardon. The clerk added that the fine reputation of Dr Campbell, away serving with Her Majesty’s army in the Crimean Peninsula, had helped in the consideration of releasing Molly Williams.

  Alice immediately sat down and wrote the news to her fiancé. She was still mystified why he should go to such lengths to have a criminal released. It would take weeks for the letter to reach the frontlines of what was becoming a vicious war between the three big European powers of France, Britain and Russia, aided by the Ottoman Empire.

  *

  The days passed while Ian ensured that his company was drilled in tactics. Inspections of rifles and kit were conducted, and a few soldiers grumbled about the rigorous conditions set by their commander. But it all paid off when the word came down that the Russians were assembling a mere twelve miles away, at the Alma River.

  At 3 o’clock in the morning, Ian had his company roused from their sleep to march on the enemy as a part of the regiment’s battle order. As usual, Ian could see the confusion reign in the early hours of the morning as the commissariat officers vainly tried to meet the logistic requirements of moving support stores. However, the discipline Ian had installed in his company was paying off, as they assembled smartly with their battle kit in good order. The colonel addressed his regiment, and Ian knew that within the next few hours or days, he would learn if he had been born to battle.

  Twenty

  In the early hours before dawn, Ian stood with his fellow officers of the regiment, listening to their colonel brief them on the order of march; the French divisions would be on one flank with six thousand Turkish infantry on the other. The warships would move along the coast to provide covering fire from their cannons.

  As Ian listened to the briefing, he could see the numerous dots of campfires preparing the morning meals, and Ian hoped that it would not be the last meal of many of his men.

  By the time the sun arose on a warm day, the regiments had been marshalled to march, but there was the usual delay as the transport units were in confusion. Ian stood in front of his company, behind him the men in lines ready to advance on Sebastopol across the Alma River. Ian had armed himself with his sword and revolver. Behind him, his men shouldered their rifles, tipped with bayonets ready for action. He stood alone, both excitement and fear washing through his thoughts. His forward position and personal weapons marked him as an officer, but it was essential in the long tradition of British officers to be seen by his men as the one who feared death the least. Up until now, he had enjoyed the fruits of being an officer, and now he was about to pay the price for those privileges.

  A regimental runner came to him, informing Ian that the order was given.

  ‘Company, advance!’

  The wing of the British army moved forward at a steady pace on the undulating land of little forest and sparse grass. With each step forward, all men facing the possibility of their death or mutilation reflected on how they had come to this place at this time.

  ‘When do you think we will see the Russians?’ Private Edwin Williams asked Conan, marching just beside him.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Conan answered. ‘Ask Lord Raglan when you see him.’

  A chuckle rose from those within hearing, and Edwin fell into silence when he realised that the Irishman was irritable because he was just as scared as he was. Edwin wondered if the Russian soldiers felt fear as he did.

  ‘Whose stupid idea was it for us to sign up?’ Owen asked as he marched behind Conan.

  ‘Well, at least we are not doing time in some bloody British gaol,’ Conan growled. ‘You bloody Welshmen should have learned how to swim and get to dear old Ireland.’ The age-old joke brought a grim smile to the faces of his two closest friends. ‘At least we aren’t carrying the regimental colours like poor old Mr Forbes up ahead. I heard that the Muscovites will target him when we get into a donnybrook with them. I feel a bit sorry for Colour Sergeant Leslie who has to stand with him when the fighting starts. Be thankful for small favours we aren’t the ones in the colour party.’

  After an hour, the huge mass of men marching forward were called to a halt for a fifty-minute rest on a ridge. They sat and lay on the earth, some smoking pipes and others rolling tobacco in sheets of paper. Then Lord Raglan and a large staff of British and French officers rode along the forward edge of the ranks. All men rose to their feet, rushing forward to give three rousing cheers for the British general. The sun shone on the metal of the rows of bayonets, and Ian watched with swelling pride for his role of leading his men into battle.

  Then the order was given to once again advance down the ridge, even as carts took away soldiers who had succumbed to sickness or heat exhaustion.

  Smoke rose from white-walled farm houses in their path, as the withdrawing Russians enforced their scorched earth tactic. The British army climbed a hill slope until they reached the top, and when Ian led his company onto the hilltop, they looked down over a sweeping plain, and beyond that, the sight took his breath away. He could see masses of Russian cavalry assembled to meet them.

  When Ian looked to his left, he could see a large village in flames beside a small stream. He realised in this parched land, this stream was as valuable to his men as the Minie bullets they carried.

  The army continued its advance to the point that Ian could make out the long lances the Cossack horsemen were armed with. A staff officer rode to Ian with orders, and Ian turned to signal Herbert and the other junior officers of his company to him.

  Herbert hurried forward, accompanied by Colour Sergeant Leslie.

  ‘We have the order to deploy our skirmishers forward,’ Ian said.
Herbert and the other lieutenants returned to their units to pass on the order.

  Amongst Herbert’s best marksmen were Conan and the Williams brothers, who put into practice their drill of moving forward quickly to a distance of around one hundred yards ahead of the army’s front, at ten to twelve yards apart.

  Conan took up a position in a slight depression, peering along the sights of his rifle at the rows of lances glittering in the sunshine, advancing towards him and the ranks of his comrades behind him. Conan was to attempt to locate any enemy who might look as if he was an officer and kill him, but all he could see were the grim faces of rough-looking men mounted on small, hardy mounts. So, this was what death looked like. Conan shuddered. His hands were wet with sweat, and he had to fight to control the urge to loosen his bowels, as he crouched with the rifle to his shoulder. To his left and right were Edwin and Owen, who he suspected were experiencing the same fear. Conan knew that they would be the first to receive the deadly tips of the lances through their bodies when the Cossacks decided to charge. The skirmishers felt very vulnerable in front of the regiment’s ranks, as there was little hope of sprinting back to the relative safety of their company behind them when the fast-moving Russian cavalry advanced.

  Now holding his sword in his right hand and the revolver in his left, Ian stared at the rows of Russian cavalry in the distance. He admitted to himself that he was terrified at the prospect of being skewered by a lance, but realised everything about an officer came down to showing no fear. He knew that the men he led looked to him to be the rock in an ocean pounded by the forces of death. When Ian glanced to his right, he expected to see Captain Sinclair standing in front of his company, sword raised and pistol in hand. But he was absent, and Ian wondered why.

  Ian became aware that the cavalry was advancing slowly towards the British ranks, but suddenly, masses of Russian cavalry appeared from between the hills to their front. Ian quickly calculated that the Russian horsemen outnumbered their own cavalry by three to one, and the British would have to charge uphill. The odds were not good.