The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  Lord Lucan stepped forward to wisely have his cavalry halt, and tasked them with escorting the forward skirmishers back to the lines of their regiments standing shoulder to shoulder with their Enfield rifled muskets ready.

  A brightly dressed British cavalryman rode to Conan and the Williams brothers.

  ‘I have orders to make sure you sojers return to your companies,’ he said from aloft his big mount. Conan rose from his position, as did Edwin and Owen either side of him, and gratefully walked beside the cavalryman back to rejoin the ranks of his company.

  Then the firing erupted from the Russian-fortified positions on the field, but they were inaccurate and still out of range.

  Ian felt his heartbeat as he observed three large Russian infantry squares slowly descend the hills before them. Surely the battle would now begin. Why were they moving so slowly when they were advancing down the hill? Ian asked himself, and his question was answered when he noticed the centre formation advance in front of the other two to open its ranks, and the snouts of cannon could be seen. Ian remembered the stories from his father, who had told him how the solid cannonballs would bounce along the hard earth to rip off arms, legs, heads and disembowel soldiers in the packed ranks. One cannonball was capable of killing or maiming many men. It was deceptive to actually see the projectiles bouncing along the ground at high speed, and think that they held little fear at the end of their trajectory. It was only when they came to a complete stop that they lost their killing power.

  It was the British cavalry in front of his infantry men who took the brunt of the Russian artillery.

  Ian watched in horror as the white smoke erupted from the mouth of one cannon, and seconds later saw a splash of blood from a cavalryman’s leg as the iron cannonball removed his foot from the ankle. More cannonballs bounced into the British lines, but were ineffective because of the long range they were fired at.

  Ian was almost deafened when their own artillery opened up in a counter bombardment against the Russian squares. He watched as the Russians chose to retire out of range, on the reverse side of the row of hills to the British front.

  Dr Peter Campbell had advanced with a small cart to carry his medical kit with the regiment. He had taken up a position behind the ranks and readied himself to treat battle casualties. His first patient was the cavalryman whose ankle had been shattered by the cannonball. The soldier was helped from his horse by one of the regimental clerks assisting Peter.

  Peter laid him down on the grass and could see that the foot was dangling on just a strip of flesh. Blood was pumping from the severed artery.

  ‘I just need a dressing,’ the cavalryman said through gritted teeth. ‘Then I will be able to rejoin my squadron.’

  Peter had applied a tight tourniquet and could see that the foot would be required to come off back at a surgical station behind the lines. He wondered at the cool courage of the horse soldier lying on the earth. He signalled to a cart nearby intended to carry the first battle-wounded patient Peter had treated in this war. When the wounded man was being taken away, Peter wiped his bloody hands on his surgical apron.

  The order came down the ranks that the army would bivouac in their current positions. Tots of rum and meat were consumed by the soldiers as they waited for the next orders. When supply barrels were emptied, they were broken up to provide wood for fires that night as the cold set in.

  Ian found Captain Miles Sinclair sitting by a small fire with his company sergeant major.

  ‘Join us, old chap,’ Miles beckoned with a flask of his private stock of brandy. ‘A bit different to facing those savage Maoris, I dare say.’

  Ian felt a twinge of guilt, as he had never faced a real battle until this day, and it had not proved to be what he expected. It had been an anti-climax with the Russians retreating before them.

  Ian squatted down beside his friend, taking the offered silver flask and swigging from it before returning the brandy to Miles.

  ‘I noticed when we were facing the Muscovites, I could not see you out in front of your company,’ Ian said.

  ‘Ah, yes, old chap,’ Miles replied as he handed the flask to his grizzled senior NCO. ‘The men like to see us at the front, but when the shooting starts, I have found it wiser to keep my head down in the ranks. I would strongly suggest that you also follow my example, if you want to survive your first battle. Let the junior officers do all that heroic stuff of being up front. You and I are responsible to ensure that we stay alive to command and control our companies. The men do not perform well without leadership, and that is our prime responsibility. Any fool can make himself a target for their sharpshooters, but a smart army keeps its senior officers alive.’

  Ian reflected on the advice of the seasoned officer, and had to admit it made sense. He sat for a while with the two men until he decided that he should seek out Herbert, and sit with him in the cold and damp night. At least it was not raining, and Ian found Herbert sitting with Colour Sergeant Leslie.

  ‘I will be bidding you a good night, sir,’ Leslie said when he saw Ian approach, leaving Herbert with Ian.

  ‘What do you think will happen tomorrow?’ Herbert asked Ian.

  ‘I think the Russians simply felt us out today, and we can expect a full-scale battle when the sun comes up,’ Ian said quietly. ‘You need to try and get some sleep when you can.’

  ‘I was terrified today,’ Herbert blurted. ‘And that was not even in the face of the Russians charging at us.’

  ‘I have to admit that I was also frightened when I saw the Muscovite cavalry assembling in their formations,’ Ian said, resting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. ‘I suspect that every man standing in the ranks felt the same as you and I. Fear is not reserved for the rank and file alone. We are allowed to experience what they feel, but not show it. That is why we are officers, and must set an example. I suspect that courage is the ability to overcome the natural order of fear, and we are expected to be good at that.’

  ‘You have seen battle before,’ Herbert reminded, and Ian once again felt a twinge of guilt. At least now, Ian had a better understanding of Samuel’s distaste for war.

  ‘Get some rest, Herbert,’ Ian said, rising to now seek out his company sergeant major, and hopefully find sleep when his mind stopped racing.

  *

  Ian surprised himself when he did eventually fall asleep, but the pre-dawn chill came soon enough to wake him as men stirred around him.

  The watch fires were being put out, and the day promised to be one too beautiful to die on. Ian looked across the valley at the peaceful meadows and vineyards. Bugle calls echoed in the hills as the men ate a hasty breakfast, looked to the maintenance of their rifles, and prepared for orders.

  Ian stood on the high ground, surveying the hills to their front through a small telescope he carried. He calculated that the Russians would be covering the bridges and fords across the river with artillery guns. The enemy held the high ground, and it would be a good two-and-a-half-hour march to reach the base of the hills the Russians were entrenched upon. But when Ian turned to gaze at the men huddled under greatcoats – or standing around in small groups, he could see how exhausted they were from lack of sleep, and the continuing drama of cholera and dysentery. Added to this was heatstroke, which was beginning to plague the British soldiers, with drinking water almost non-existent.

  ‘God help us,’ Ian said quietly as both a prayer and statement of the condition of his men.

  By mid-morning, the British army was advancing after moments of confusion and recriminations, and an almost carnival atmosphere existed amongst the troops. Ian took up his position at the front of the company, remembering the advice from Captain Sinclair. When the combat commenced, he would take cover amongst the ranks of his men to direct the fight.

  After a while, the regiment halted to allow stragglers to catch up. Mail was distributed, and Peter was overjoyed to receive
a letter from Alice. It had been posted weeks earlier, but that did not matter. What mattered was the love in each stroke of the pen to him from her.

  Then the war truly commenced at the Alma River.

  *

  Russian artillery guns opened fire. The village before them suddenly burst into flames, and a gentle breeze carried the acrid smoke towards Ian’s company. Round-shot tore through the ranks, and Ian could hear the screams of dying soldiers. He quickly glanced back to see Herbert holding the regimental flag aloft, and Colour Sergeant Leslie standing beside him. Many of the men had chosen to lay prone, attempting to avoid the heavy cannonballs coming towards them.

  There was a vineyard close by, and Ian could see Russian skirmishers partly concealed amongst the rows of vines.

  ‘Mr Forbes, your skirmishers to the vineyard yonder,’ Ian screamed to be heard above the crash of heavy artillery guns. His order was received, and Ian saw ten riflemen advance from the ranks. Amongst them he could see Conan Curry and the two Williams brothers. They had bayonets fixed and grim expressions as they sprinted forward to engage the Russian sharpshooters. Ian could hear the sound of the cannonballs tear through the air, and the horrible thump as they landed amongst the packed ranks of the regiment. Smashed stone splinters and timber sprayed the air when the villas nearby were struck. Ian no longer felt the terrible gut-wrenching fear he experienced when they first formed up that morning. He was too busy considering the options he had to smash the Russian defenders.

  All along the line of red-coated British soldiers came the order to advance towards the river, and Ian bellowed his orders for his company. He also realised that he had not taken his friend’s advice to retire to the safety of the ranks, and was still a solitary figure waving a sword in front of the advancing company.

  As he passed the vineyards, he saw from the corner of his eye three of his skirmishers emerge with bloodied bayonets. The roar of Russian artillery and musket fire was added to by the explosive crash of the British artillery guns firing in support of the advancing army. Already, smoke from the burning buildings was swelled by the acrid smoke of the guns, which stung Ian’s eyes. He could see the white smoke trails of British rockets overhead as they sought out the Russian guns. He had not time to reflect on the fact he was now in a real war as he strode forward, his company following him into the gates of hell.

  They reached the river and began wading across it under the constant roar of cannon and crackle of musketry firing from the heights above them. Herbert had already given the order to fire a volley up at the enemy, and this was followed by the other companies of the regiment doing the same. Spouts of water splashed around the soldiers in the river, and occasionally crimson pools appeared when a Russian shot found a target. Ian felt the chill of the water to his waist but held his pistol above it to ensure his powder cartridges were kept dry. Despite the lack of sleep, hunger and even thirst, the bulk of his men reached the other side, scrambling up the steep slope directly towards the Russians pouring fire into their ranks, killing and maiming many men.

  A few mounted officers from other regiments splashed across the river with their men, and bellowed encouragement, as if on a fox hunt.

  Ian could see the dark uniforms of his riflemen amongst the redcoats of other regiments. It was a desperate time, with British soldiers falling dead or badly wounded, and all Ian could do was continue leading his men up the slope, roaring profanities at the Russians, ignoring the death around him. His head throbbed, and his mouth was dry, but he experienced a strange red mist of determination to reach the entrenched enemy only yards away.

  He was vaguely aware of a rifleman on his left having his jaw smashed away by a musket ball, and his blood splashed across Ian’s face. Another soldier on his right screamed as a solid shot ripped away his leg, continuing on to take off a soldier’s head behind him.

  Then Ian could actually make out the bearded faces of the Russian infantrymen before him. He raised his pistol and fired point-blank into one of the enemy soldiers directly to his front, and saw him fall back. Ian was not alone, and was vaguely aware that Conan Curry and the two Williams brothers were either side, as if deciding to be his personal bodyguards. Ian was screaming ancient Gaelic slogans from the Scottish side of his Celtic blood, and the Williams boys did the same in Welsh. Atop the entrenchment filled with Russian soldiers, Ian slashed with his sword at the bayonet thrust at him. The sword and bayonet clashed but the Russian bayonet was diverted from Ian’s stomach. Around him, similar scenes were being played out as men screamed curses, thrust with bayonets, and clubbed with rifle butts.

  Ian leapt into the trench, scattering the enemy soldiers who turned to engage him. Ian was hardly aware of his predicament as the rest of his surviving company also fell upon the Russians. It was a tightly packed melee of men grunting, sweating and killing each other. Ian felt something sear along his arm, forcing him to reel back. The Russian withdrew his rifle to attempt another bayonet thrust, but Ian lunged forward with his sword, forcing it deep into the Russian musketeer’s stomach. He was vaguely aware of the terror in the other man’s eyes, and when Ian withdrew the sword blade, the Russian soldier fell to his knees, holding his stomach. A bullet from somewhere mercifully put the enemy soldier out of his agony. Again, Ian noticed the trio of his unofficial bodyguard stabbing and bludgeoning any Russians within reach.

  Then Ian could see the remaining Russians scrambling out of the trench, retreating back to their secondary defences. But many still remained, determined to take as many British soldiers as possible into the arms of death before they forfeited their own lives.

  Later, Ian hardly remembered being in the Russian trenches, shooting, stabbing and slashing with his sword. He did not know how many men he killed that day but in a slight lull, realised that it was his job to assess the situation, and best deploy his men. He screamed orders for the company to take up formation for a volley into the Russians being gradually pushed out of their defences. He was overjoyed to see young Herbert still alive, and standing firm with the regimental colours flapping in the breeze and shrouded by the clouds of gunpowder laying across the battlefield. Ian’s order was passed down to his junior officers, and soon, Ian was pleased to hear the deadly controlled volleys pour the Minie bullets into the Russian defenders at close range.

  As the smoke drifted, Ian could see that the volley had ripped apart the ranks of the Russian defenders on the ridge. Russian and British soldiers lay dead or wounded only a few paces from him, and it was then that he fully realised how outnumbered his regiment had been when attacking the heights.

  ‘Charge!’ Ian screamed and as one, his company thrust forward the long bayonets, running at the disorganised Russians, who now appeared to be fleeing down the slopes. In hand-to-hand combat, Russian and Englishman sought to kill each other so close that they could smell the other man’s breath, and see the terror in his eyes. The British riflemen also knew that they too must appear the same terrified way to the men they were attempting to kill. Curses in English and Russian mingled in a terrible form of personal war. The groans and moans of the badly wounded were a continuous whine under the noise of small arms and artillery fire.

  Ian was once again fighting for his life as he clashed with a big Russian soldier who had turned to engage the advancing British officer. In desperation, Ian attempted to lift his sword arm to parry the Russian bayonet, and to his horror, realised that he had suffered a wound to his arm. He was certainly about to die when suddenly, he saw the big Russian soldier’s head jerk back, a fine mist of blood left in the air. Ian turned to see Private Curry lowering his rifle with a grim smile. Ian nodded his gratitude.

  The long hours passed, and the fighting continued as the Allied forces pushed the Russians back, but by 5 o’clock, it was assured the battle of the Alma River was over, with an Allied victory with a heavy butcher’s bill.

  A tremendous, ragged cheer rose from the throats of the soldiers who h
ad survived, when the British generals rode by. It echoed in Ian’s head as he sat on the earth atop the heights of the Alma River, surrounded by the bodies of British and Russian soldiers. His hands were shaking so badly that he could not reload his cap and ball pistol. Already his senior NCOs were carrying out a roll call of the company survivors, and Ian reflected on the last few hours of his life with an understanding of why Samuel had gladly exchanged places with him; dust, exhaustion, pain, sweat, smoke and the feeling of complete emptiness. Ian gazed at the cluster of men answering to the roll call and knew that he must find the strength to address them. His attention was distracted when he looked up at the smoke drifting across the battlefield to see flocks of birds flying in confusion through it.

  ‘We did fine work this day.’

  Ian glanced up to see the newspaper man standing a few paces away.

  ‘I see that you are well, Mr Russell,’ Ian said wearily.

  ‘I am, but I am saddened to see the butcher’s bill this great victory has brought us. I am not sure I know how to write the story.’

  ‘It is one that needs to be told,’ Ian said, pushing himself to his feet. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Russell, I should join my company.’

  ‘I must compliment you on your bravery, Captain Forbes,’ Russell said. ‘I have spoken to a few of your lads, and they informed me how you led them up the hill without any sign of fear. Private Curry said that he and the lads would follow you into hell, if you so ordered.’

  With those words, for the first time in his military career, Ian truly understood what it meant to be an officer of the Queen.

  Twenty-One

  It was a cold, bleak day in London as the leaves began to fall in Hyde Park.