by Peter Watt
Dr Campbell marched beside Ian. He did not carry any arms but still wore a conspicuous military uniform similar to that of an officer in the rifle regiment. Ian had warned him that he was safer in the rear where he would carry out surgery, amputating arms and legs shattered by the heavy lead balls of Russian musket or cannon fire. But Peter felt comfortable in the company of his friend.
They chattered about life in London at the Reform Club, and yearned for the good meals they had taken for granted in that time of easy living. Eventually, they were on the top of the hills amongst the forest of shrubs and came across a villa of modest means with a veranda covered in honeysuckle, roses and clematis. The villa was also littered with broken music-stools, and chairs. The windows were smashed, and when Peter ducked inside, he returned to Ian to say, ‘It appears that the home belonged to a Russian colleague, maybe a physician or surgeon.’
‘Bloody senseless,’ Ian grunted. They had become used to this scorched earth policy by their enemy, but the destruction of the pretty villas made little military sense.
That night, they camped at the little village of Eskel on the banks of the Katscha River. The village had also been vandalised by the retreating Russian army, smashing furniture and scattering personal possessions. A few of the residents returned, and the regiment was informed by them that the Russian army was demoralised by their defeat at Alma.
A mail delivery arrived, and Ian waited hopefully for a letter from Jane but was once again bitterly disappointed. There was absolutely no sense why she should not inform him of her condition. For all he knew, he might even be a father now. Never before had he felt so frustrated and helpless.
Peter and Herbert joined him in one of the deserted little houses for the night’s bivouac. They recovered a small wooden table, lit a candle and sat around with a bottle of brandy Peter had been able to produce from his medical kit. As they had no glasses they shared the bottle, swigging from it in turn. Ian gazed at Herbert, realising that the young man was barely seventeen years old, and yet his eyes were now those of an old man. He felt a wave of affection for the boy who was like a brother to him – if he only knew the truth . . .
‘This country has its own charm,’ Peter said, holding the bottle of brandy. ‘The vineyards, flowers and forests. It is a shame to see it so destroyed by war.’
‘I would rather be home,’ Herbert slurred as the alcohol took hold.
‘Ah, young Herbert, when you do return home, think of how all the pretty young ladies will be at your feet as you recount your heroic deeds,’ Ian said, attempting to cheer the young man who he could see had been badly affected by the battle days before. ‘Think how proud Alice will be of her little brother.’
‘Alice has corresponded that she would rather have me back in London,’ Herbert said, handing the bottle to Ian.
‘Did she say the same for me?’ Ian asked.
‘No, she feels that Dr Campbell needs you to be at his side to protect him. You were born for war from what I have witnessed, and if that damned Jenkins continues to tell all who will listen what a bad officer you are, I will challenge him to a duel.’
‘You will not challenge Mr Jenkins to a duel,’ Ian said firmly. ‘If he survives this war, I will.’
The three men spent the evening chatting about military matters, life at home and finally fell into sleep in the three beds they had found in the villa. The stuffing from the mattresses had been scattered but the weary men still slept fitfully in nightmares of exploding musketry and dying soldiers. During the evening, none had spoken of what lay ahead.
*
Despite the sleeting rain outside the window, Molly was warm, and well fed. She pored through the books of accounts, rectifying mistakes, and entering the expenditure and income. Whoever had been the previous bookkeeper had been sloppy, and Molly was actually finding spending that had not been accounted for.
She had been at the Forbes country estate for over a week, and was aware that her appointment was met with whispers from the staff of the kitchen to the servants in the front foyer. She was aware of the rumours because she had befriended a young stable boy who she had helped balance his pay with a few more pennies for his family. Molly was also aware that the boy had a crush on her, and she was pleased that she had at least one friend in the large staff of servants.
Molly had already written a letter to Conan, explaining her good fortune and praising the generosity of Miss Alice. Now she had a warm bed, clean clothes and employment that paid a better income than that of a seamstress. Molly knew that it would take a long time to receive a written reply and would sneak The Times paper whenever she could, to follow Mr Russell’s accounts of the war in Crimea. There was not a night when Molly did not pray for the safety of Conan and her brothers.
On this bleak day, Molly worked studiously at the books and frowned. It appeared that Mr Charles was spending a lot of the estate’s money, but dismissed her suspicions as she considered it was his right to do so.
As if conjuring the devil, she heard the door open to her small office, and turned to see who had entered without knocking. It was Charles. Immediately she could see that he was intoxicated as he stood in the doorway staring at her.
‘I pray that you are happy in your work,’ he slurred. ‘Not every poor girl off the streets has been given your opportunities, although I have been informed by my sister you are much better than our last bookkeeper.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Molly answered, uncomfortable in his presence. She sensed that the man standing in the doorway was leering at her. Charles walked over to Molly and placed his hands on her shoulders. Molly’s body stiffened at his touch. She knew from experience that men such as Charles Forbes had the power to do as they wished. But she had a guardian angel when she heard the voice of Alice say, ‘Charles, you must leave Miss Williams to do her work in peace.’
Charles withdrew his hands, and turning to his sister he said, ‘I was just complimenting Miss Williams on the fine job she is doing.’
Alice hovered in the doorway until Charles brushed past her to return to his drinking.
‘I hope my brother did not bother you,’ Alice said gently, as if suspecting what had occurred before her timely intervention. ‘He thinks he has a way with the ladies.’
‘No, miss,’ Molly lied, suspecting this would not be the last time she would be confronted by the master of the house. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘Good,’ Alice said with a weak smile. Molly did not want to lose her wonderful job, but she was also not naive. What would she do if he came to her bed in the night, as she suspected he would?
*
The march south continued, and so did the dreaded shadow of cholera dogging the French and British armies. The regiment passed by beautiful snow-white stone cottages amongst the trees and vineyards. At one stage, Ian’s company passed a chateau that obviously once belonged to a very wealthy person, and saw British soldiers from another regiment looting it. They appeared with armfuls of rich clothing, bronze art works and other items of value. Ian could see that his own men were eager to join the looting, but he roared his order not to break ranks. Ian did not believe in looting, and his men sullenly obeyed, watching an officer from a cavalry squadron ride away with a bronze statue. What was more valuable than loot lay ahead; a clear sparkling stream from which he ordered his company to fill their canteens before it was muddied by the passage of boots and hooves.
Then it was a struggle up yet another hill, but at least his men were not burdened by heavy looted prizes. In the early evening the army came to a halt, and Ian had orders passed down that he was to dispatch a section of riflemen to move forward as a protective party for Lord Raglan.
Eager to see what was ahead, Ian took command of ten riflemen from Herbert’s platoon to follow Lord Raglan. They emerged from a wooded road into an open space, and were startled to encounter a large body of Russian infantry guarding a bag
gage train. Lord Raglan and his party of officers quickly spurred their horses back to the main body of the army, while Ian gave the order to his section to form a skirmish line. They were quickly joined by an artillery section, and a squadron of cavalry. As the guns were unlimbered, Ian gave the order to his section to fire on the retreating Russians. He was pleased to see around five of the enemy soldiers fall to his well-practised riflemen as the Russians fled out of sight, leaving their baggage train unguarded.
Ian saw a cavalry officer ride to the wagons and watched him begin to loot the legitimate spoils of war, and Ian turned to his own riflemen.
‘Boys, take what you can,’ he said and the men eagerly scrambled to take their place going through whatever stores they could in the wagons.
Ian decided he would also join them, and clambered into one of the wagons, whilst Conan and the Williams brothers did the same in another wagon, throwing expensive clothing over the side in search of more valuable, portable loot.
Ian found an ornate jewellery box which he flipped open. What he saw took his breath away; a heavy gold necklace with a diamond and blue sapphire attachment at its end. He also saw a pile of other valuable gold and precious stones in the box, which he snatched, and quickly pocketed. Ian knew what he had just found was a small fortune worth a king’s ransom.
‘Sir, look at this!’ Conan yelled, triumphantly holding up a magnum of champagne. ‘There’s a lot more here.’
‘Good show, corporal. Make sure you take as much as you can to share with the fellows in the company.’
Conan did not need encouragement and as he pulled away the stores in the wagon he found a sealed, wooden crate. Conan gasped when he was able to remove the lid, and saw wads of English pounds. Very quickly, he and the Williams brothers pocketed the glorious find, whilst the others of his section also made good discoveries of Russian coins and jewellery.
Ian returned his attention to the wagon he was scrounging through, finding even more precious jewellery, which he pocketed. Satisfied there was little else of portable value, he clambered from the wagon just as other soldiers arrived, hearing of the wonderful find. They too, joined in the pillaging that was sanctified under the rules of war.
Ian ordered his section to withdraw to the company lines, helping Conan and his section carry back as many bottles of champagne as they could. All the time, Ian’s head was reeling from the knowledge of what was bulging in his pockets. It was his by right of war, and he understood why ancient armies would be distracted by such enemy baggage trains.
It was early evening when they returned, and Ian was joined by Herbert. Conan had insisted that Ian take two of the champagne bottles to celebrate their win.
‘I would like you to find Dr Campbell and inform him that tonight, we wash down our salt pork and biscuits with champagne.’
Herbert grinned, and hurried away to the rear of the regiment in search of Peter, while Ian quietly made his way to a deserted section of the woods to carefully cache away his fortune in jewels. He tightly wrapped it all in a cotton cloth, and packed it into his haversack. Then he returned to the edge of the woods, where he met Peter and Herbert.
‘Gentlemen, tonight we partake of good French wine, courtesy of our Russian foe.’
That night, Ian slept with his head beside his fortune with hopes of placing the beautiful gold necklace around Jane’s throat. But all he dreamed of was the circle of stones and death.
Twenty-Three
Conan held the wad of pound notes he had counted. The three soldiers huddled away from their comrades in the chilly night, so they could not be seen.
‘How much?’ Owen asked.
‘One thousand three hundred pounds,’ Conan answered.
‘What is that split three ways?’ Edwin asked.
‘We split it four ways,’ Conan answered.
‘Four ways?’ Owen asked, puzzled at the maths.
‘Yes,’ Conan said. ‘We include Molly in the split.’
The two brothers did not protest at their sister’s inclusion, but Edwin asked, ‘What if one of us gets killed?’
‘Then we split it three ways,’ Conan answered. ‘I will hold Molly’s share until we return home.’
‘I heard that they recovered a chest of three thousand pounds,’ Edwin said. ‘Too bad we hadn’t got to it first.’
Owen opened a magnum of champagne they had recovered from the looted Russian baggage train, and the bottle was passed between the three to celebrate their windfall. But even as they swallowed down the fizzy alcoholic beverage, it was in each of their thoughts that they must survive whatever was ahead if they were to enjoy the financial fruits of their war.
*
It was a much happier army that marched the following day, as soldiers packed their kit with looted garments and trinkets. They marched through woods and along steep tracks without being harassed by the Russians, finally crossing the last river, the Tchernaya within a few short miles of Balaclava.
Ian stood with Captain Miles Sinclair gazing down at the tiny harbour of Balaclava.
‘I’m no naval man, but it is obvious the harbour is too small to ride a fleet,’ Miles said, and Ian agreed. He could see at least six British warships already in the harbour, acting as a blockade. Ian saw a crumbling ancient fort originally constructed well above the seashore, and mused that in its time, it would have been sufficient to protect the tiny port. Both men strode away from their high vantage point to rejoin their companies, as other officers took their place to observe the village of Balaclava on the coast. It was time to go down and occupy the little village unopposed, with its pretty villas and flower-covered gardens soon to be trampled under the boots of the British army.
Their entrance was met by the local Greek population with trays of fruit and flowers. Some had bread and salt, which was a traditional sign of submission.
Tents were landed by the navy, and the order was given to abandon the village which now was in a pitiful state due to the vast numbers of soldiers in it. The stench of cholera and dysentery pervaded, drowning the scent of flowers.
The tents were erected on the bleak heights overlooking the tiny harbour filled with warships and transports. Food and water became more plentiful, and Ian was given a large, spacious tent with a bed, table and a wood-burning heater to ward off the extreme chill of the approaching winter. He knew from the conferences he attended that there was a squabble between the two main allied armies of the French and British, as to how to take the main port of Sebastopol. The French favoured a siege, and the British an all-out assault on the Russian-held port city.
Ian knew that the inactivity of his company would lead to low morale, as his men shivered through the long nights and were confined to the regimental lines by day. Cholera still thinned the ranks of the soldiers, and Ian heard from a fellow officer that it was also raging in London. The medical theory of bad vapours causing the disease were scoffed at by Dr Campbell, who adhered to the theory it was a water-borne disease, so Ian ensured that all the water his men drank was first boiled. His rate of cholera patients was the lowest in the regiment. But the public in England still read of the appalling conditions of the sick and wounded in the Crimea. Not enough medical staff, medicines and even bandages. The pleas eventually stirred the civilian population in England, and a remarkable woman would offer her services to recruit women to travel to the war front to nurse the sick and wounded. Her name was Florence Nightingale.
*
Molly lay fully awake in her bed at the Forbes manor. First, she heard the creak on the stairs outside her bedroom. Then a short silence followed the sound of the door opening. She tried to sit up in bed but felt the weight of Charles cover her. Molly fought, surprising Charles, who regained his feet.
‘How dare you resist my advances!’ he snarled. ‘You have a choice between me bedding you, or packing your wretched belongings and leaving this house in the morning. It
is your choice. A good job and me, or back on the streets.’
‘I would prefer to return to the streets than let you have me,’ Molly replied in a quavering voice.
‘Then you have made your choice. I want you off the estate before mid-morning.’
Charles left the room, and Molly lay back against the pillow, shaking from the sobs that came easily. Her dreams of security shattered, and now she would have to return to the mean streets of London.
*
The chill of winter was becoming more apparent with each day in October. Ian sat beside Corporal Conan Curry in one of the trenches hewn out of the hard, stony earth with his telescope to his eye, watching the Russians in Sebastopol reinforcing their own earthworks. Ian could see an exposed Russian officer supervising the works to his front.
‘Too far for a shot at that Muscovite officer,’ Conan said, lowering his Enfield to rest on the edge of rocky earth of their trench.
‘If you can’t do it, no one can, Corporal Curry,’ Ian said, and turned his back to lean against the side of the trench. Ian knew that morale was low in the regiment due to the inactivity. Whereas the adjoining French army had their military bands to play music each night, the British army had packed up its musical instruments, and assigned the bandsmen the duty of being stretcher bearers. The weather was growing colder by the day. He had hoped that his riflemen could at least take shots at the enemy within view, but they remained frustratingly out of range. Ian had an idea and sought out the colonel at his lunch. Ian proposed that he take a platoon of the best marksmen out during the night to close the range with the Russian defences.
The colonel agreed, but stipulated that Lieutenant Jenkins’ platoon be the section to be used. Ian was not pleased with the choice, and argued the three best marksmen from Mr Forbes’ platoon also accompany them. Chewing on the leg of a roasted chicken, the colonel finally agreed. At least Ian had been able to get a small concession, and did not tell his commanding officer that he, too, would go forward with the selected riflemen.