The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  Ian could see their own heavy cavalry regiment wheeling into formation to counter the Russian breakthrough of the high ground before them. Ian was not aware that a Scottish highland regiment was already engaging the Russian forces on the other side of the hills, and had slowed down the overwhelming numbers of Russian infantry scrambling up the hillsides. With disciplined fire and sheer courage, the Scots met the lines of Russian soldiers.

  The regiment came to a halt, and the men watched as the light and heavy cavalry squadrons of Scots and Irish, vastly outnumbered by their Russian counterparts, formed their ranks. Ian watched as the Russian horsemen descended the slope at the British cavalry. First at a slow canter, then at a trot. Ian heard the bugle call followed by a cheer from the British cavalry before they made their charge directly into the centre of the Russians. Sabres flashed in the sunlight, and the British squadrons smashed through the first line of Russian horsemen; the Scots and Irish numbers were reduced by the uneven ferocious attack, but they continued onwards to assault the second ranks of the Russian cavalry units, now charging at full strength against the surviving British cavalrymen.

  Ian had now retired to the ranks of his rifle company, and stood by Herbert, holding the regimental flag.

  ‘God help them,’ Herbert said, and Ian nodded just as the remnants of the Scots and Irish horsemen broke through the final rank of Russians. In their wake, the British cavalry had left many Russians dead and mortally wounded on the bloody battleground, and the Russian lines were in disarray.

  ‘Look!’ Herbert said, and Ian turned to see the colourful uniforms of the Dragoons and Royals enter the fight, charging at the broken ranks of Russian cavalry, following up in the gaps created by the initial mad charge by the Scots and Irish cavalrymen. The unexpected second wave of British horsemen caused the Russian cavalry to break and run.

  A mighty cheer went up from the riflemen observing the battle, and Ian was one of those who cheered loudest.

  ‘By God, they have seen the Muscovites off,’ Herbert said as the plain was now covered in dead and wounded men and horses of both sides. When the celebrating ceased, Ian realised that they could not conclude they had won the war – simply a battle – and ordered his skirmishers forward in the event of a counterattack.

  On that same day, the light cavalry troopers were bitterly disappointed not to have been used in the decisive attack on their Russian counterparts. As Ian advanced with his regiment to the heights, the light cavalry was already forming up to charge down a valley at Russian artillery emplacements. Even Ian could see that it was a disastrous tactic, and later known as the ill-fated Charge of the Light Brigade. But, as an infantryman, Ian was more interested in keeping himself and his men alive, and less in the fate of the glamorous cavalrymen.

  Ian’s company found itself engaged in firing on the odd Russian or two they saw in the distance, but the range proved to be too far for any serious damage, although it was good for the British soldier’s morale to be able to be a part of the fighting that day.

  Towards dusk, the order was given to his regiment to fall back on Balaclava, as the Russians had successfully manned the heights and the valleys beyond. As they retreated, Ian could see how they had turned a victory into a defeat. Worse still, Ian realised, they had lost the main road for their supplies from the tiny port of Balaclava to their encampments.

  ‘Sir, did we win a great battle today?’ Private Owen Williams asked marching beside Ian.

  ‘I don’t think so, Private Williams,’ Ian answered wearily. Not once that day had he drawn his sword, Ian thought. ‘We will have to engage the Muscovites again to truly win this war.’

  The men marched, their faces chilled by the coming winter.

  *

  It was warm inside the Brooks Club. Charles Forbes liked being a member because the club had a reputation for high-stakes gambling. The three-storeyed yellow brick and Portland stone building in St James Street, Westminster, was also close to the Forbes family offices. Inside the luxurious club, decorated in neo-classical style, Charles found himself sitting opposite Major Jenkins, resplendent in his ornate officer’s uniform, and recently returned from the Crimea. Charles well knew the officer from past social events in London, and Charles envied the British officer’s well-established social standing in London society. The two men were in partnership with others, and when Charles eyed his opponent in the four-man game, he could see a certain amount of cunning. Whist was the game, and the amount of money was set for the points won in the game.

  Charles called for a French deck of fifty-two cards, and they were dealt to each player. Smoke from cigars and pipes filled the room, and the port wine flowed freely.

  The game commenced, and the banter between gentlemen opened with Charles saying, ‘Major Jenkins, I believe that you have recently returned to London from the Eastern front.’

  ‘That is correct, sir,’ Jenkins said, fanning his cards into suite order. ‘I had the honour of serving with your grandfather’s old regiment.’

  ‘Ah, you must have met my brothers, Herbert and Samuel, whilst you served with the regiment,’ Charles said, glancing up from his cards at Jenkins, puffing on a big cigar.

  ‘I did,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Herbert was a fellow ensign, and your brother was my commanding officer. At least he was until my family generously purchased my majority.’

  ‘What was your opinion of my brothers?’ Charles asked.

  ‘Herbert is a brave but misguided officer,’ Jenkins said. ‘I do not wish to dishonour your family name, but in my and many other’s opinions, your brother Samuel is a dangerous fool who does not know how to act as an English officer. He is not a gentleman, and the soldiers call him the Queen’s colonial behind his back, for his unprofessional behaviour. They say he is more colonial than a true English gentleman. I beg that you do not think that casts aspersions on you or your father, Sir Archibald.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Charles shrugged. ‘The family have a similar opinion of my brother, Samuel. I must admit that we are not very close.’

  The hands were being displayed for points and Charles and his partner on the other side of the round card table were scoring high, which Charles was thankful for. In the past, Charles had been forced to embezzle money from the family funds to secure his massive gambling losses at the club.

  Near midnight, and much wine later, the games came to an end. The final scores were tallied and Charles triumphantly announced how much money was owed to he, and his card partner, by Major Jenkins and his partner. Jenkins looked uncomfortable when the result was announced by Charles.

  ‘It seems that I must call on you as a gentleman to take my chit on what I owe you, sir,’ Jenkins said across the table.

  ‘I would like to do that, but the club rules say you must pay me now.’

  Jenkins leaned back in his chair with his hands in his pockets. ‘Forbes, I do not have on hand the substantial amount I owe you at the present moment.’

  ‘Are you returning to the Crimea per chance?’ Charles asked, leaning forward across the table.

  ‘I am,’ Jenkins answered. ‘I am to be posted to Lord Raglan’s staff.’

  ‘I think that I could forget this debt in return for a small favour. Perhaps we can discuss this somewhere more private?’

  Both men rose from the table, and walked to a corner of the room where Charles knew they would not be overheard. He explained how the large gambling debt could be written off, and Major Jenkins readily agreed. After all, they both had the same enemy.

  Twenty-Five

  It was a desperate time.

  Fog and mist coupled with drizzling rain obscured the massive waves of Russians swarming out of Sebastopol in an attempt to break the siege at a village called Inkerman. The day saw the fog rent by the shells of the Russian artillery, cutting swathes through the British ranks advancing to meet the Russian infantry.

  Ian led his comp
any through scrubby bushes and thorns, his sword in one hand and the big Colt Dragoon revolver in the other. Over his shoulder was slung his Enfield. He could see that the terrain was causing his well-disciplined ranks to break up, and all the time they were not aware of the location of the enemy. And every now and then, a soldier would drop, as a musket ball or shrapnel found its mark.

  To Ian’s left, he could see the trio who now made it a point to be close to the company commander. Ian was about to bark an order for them to fall in with their platoon, but refrained. A strange bond had formed between the four of them.

  Before Ian could get his bearing on the sound of musketry, the Russian infantry loomed out of the fog. They came forward yelling, bayonets levelled at British troops’ stomachs.

  Ian did not have to give the order to fire as he fell back to the first rank of his company, and realised that he was standing with Herbert holding the regimental colours, and Colour Sergeant Leslie standing steadily with the young lieutenant. The explosive ripping sound of the Enfields being discharged tore through the closely packed ranks of the advancing Russian infantry, and it was quickly followed by a second deadly volley from the ranks of the men behind the first, who were kneeling, desperately reloading their rifled muskets.

  The Russian ranks faltered for a moment under the deadly fire of the British, but they quickly recovered, and came on through the mist with blood curdling roars of anger. There was around fifty yards between the two combatants, and Ian quickly realised that his company was outnumbered by at least two to one. He raised his pistol at arm’s length, and knew he could not miss the closely packed Russian infantry. He fired rapidly until his revolver was empty, and prepared to meet the onslaught with his sword. He did not have to wait long; the enemy was on them with stabbing bayonets, met by his own riflemen with their own bayonets.

  ‘On them, boys!’ Ian yelled unnecessarily, lunging at a Russian with his sword. The soldier was quick, parrying Ian’s lunge with the end of his rifle, but the Russian left himself open to a bayonet thrust from Corporal Curry. Ian raised his sword, but it was snatched from his hand by a Russian soldier. Ian had no weapon readily available to defend himself, and stumbled a couple of paces back. One of the Williams brothers stepped forward, engaging the Russian who had snatched Ian’s sword, giving Ian time to unsling the rifle over his shoulder, which already had the bayonet fixed.

  Now he fought as his men did, with rifle and bayonet.

  The second rank of Ian’s company quickly stepped into the gaps left by their dead and wounded comrades, holding tenaciously against the greater odds pitted against them.

  The regimental flag continued to fly aloft in Herbert’s hands, and men screamed for their mothers in two languages as death came to them, mingled with the sound of metal on metal. Grunting, cursing soldiers attempted to overpower their adversaries, while Ian’s hearing rang with the noise of the occasional shot being fired nearby.

  Nothing mattered as an officer except to stay alive like any other soldier. He turned his attention to his left, where he saw Corporal Curry attempting to ward off three Russians at once. Ian immediately pushed his way to him, and immediately lunged a feint at one of the corporal’s adversaries. It worked, as the Russian swung his rifle barrel to deflect the tip of the bayonet which did not come as expected. He had exposed his body and Ian thrust again, the bayonet sinking into the other man’s stomach. Ian twisted the bayonet to cause greater internal injury. It was not an immediate death strike but enough to disable the soldier, who now sank to his knees in agony, gripping the barrel of Ian’s rifle in his futile desperation. Ian used all his strength to yank the bayonet out and was just in time to use the rifle butt as a club in the face of another bearded Russian, this one attempting to stab him with a sword. The edge slashed lightly across Ian’s neck but his counter-blow caused the Russian to reel back. Ian was vaguely aware that his opponent must be an officer, but the sword was that of a cavalryman. The two squared off, and Ian sensed that his opponent was very good at using the sword. Eye to eye, the moment had arrived when one of them would be dead. Ian remembered that he had not yet fired his rifle, and pulled the trigger. The Minie bullet slammed into the Russian’s chest, causing him to fall backwards. The bayonet against sabre duel was over. Ian saw Private Owen Williams bayoneted in the shoulder fall to the earth, a Russian soldier poised to deliver the fatal stab into his exposed body. Ian leapt at the Russian with his already blood-tipped bayonet, and thrust it into the enemy’s armpit. Distracted, the Russian squirmed in agony, giving Owen time to recover his Enfield and thrust upwards, burying the bayonet in the wounded Russian’s chest.

  Ian withdrew his bayonet while Owen scrambled to his feet.

  When Ian glanced over his shoulder, he could see a contingent of Russian soldiers desperately fighting towards the regimental colours. Herbert was using the staff to ward off the hands reaching for it, and Colour Sergeant Leslie was down on the ground choking the life out of a Russian. Without hesitating, Ian pushed his way towards the colour party, clubbing and stabbing as he did. A Russian had his back to Ian. Ian stabbed him in the back, feeling the bayonet hit bone, before sliding through the soldier’s body to rip through his chest. When the Russian’s body fell at Ian’s feet, it jerked the rifle from his hands. Ian quickly recovered the only weapon he had left; the small calibre revolver Samuel had given him. He could see the desperate expression on Herbert’s face as he continued to use the flag staff as a weapon, and was screaming incoherently as he did so. Ian was able to stand beside him, firing into the mass of enemy scrambling to capture the colours.

  Then suddenly Corporal Curry and the Williams brothers stood with the besieged colour party. Their ferocious and desperate stand was telling on the Russians, who fell back. Ian was suddenly aware through the heavy mist of the day that the Russians were retreating. The company had held in the vicious melee of hand-to-hand combat.

  But, as the mist began to dissolve, the full horror was revealed. Russian and British soldiers lay in jumbled heaps. The wounded of both sides attempted to crawl away, and the pitiful cries rose as a moaning wail. Unknown to the company was the intervention of French cavalry, slowly turning the tide of battle as the rain began to fall.

  The order was given to retreat with what remained of the rifle brigades, and Ian’s company stumbled back to form a new defensive line. Sergeant majors removed roll books, calling the names of their comrades. Many did not answer. As to who had won the battle of Inkerman, Ian did not know. His war had been measured in the yards around him and the regimental colours. But a passing staff officer informed Ian that the Russians had withdrawn, and that meant their overwhelming numbers had been defeated by the resolute defence of the British and French troops.

  Ian could see that Herbert was trembling as he stood, still holding the bullet-riddled regimental flag. He also saw that blood oozed from a shoulder wound Private Owen Williams had received from a bayonet. Edwin was consoling him, and Ian also saw that Corporal Curry had been wounded. He sat on the wet earth in the rain, gripping his blood-soaked upper thigh. In the distance, Ian could hear the crash of artillery, and faint cries of wounded men from the sister companies of his regiment.

  ‘Sarn’t major,’ Ian said to his senior NCO who had completed the butcher’s bill of dead and wounded. ‘Collect a party of litter bearers, and search the field for our wounded.’

  ‘Sah,’ the company sergeant major replied, standing to attention. He quickly found the bandsmen who were assigned to carry litters.

  Ian turned to Conan holding his leg. ‘Corporal Curry, report as wounded,’ he commanded. ‘And make sure that Private Williams is also tended to.’

  Conan looked up at Ian. ‘I only have a bit of a cut along my leg, sir,’ he said. ‘I just need a bandage, and I will be right to rejoin the fight with the lads.’

  Ian could see the pain in the soldier’s eyes, admiring his courage. Both men had come a long way from the dusty,
dry plains, nestled at the bottom of the range of hills known as the Blue Mountains to this place of death.

  ‘Conan,’ Ian said quietly. ‘Do as you are ordered, and if Dr Campbell gives you permission to return, then you will.’

  Through pain-filled eyes, Conan looked up at Ian. The use of his first name in the familiar came as a surprise to the Irishman. ‘I will, sir.’ Ian helped him to his feet and towards two litter bearers who had joined the company.

  ‘Sir, that fifty pounds me brother and I stole from you back home, I want to repay it,’ Conan said in a quiet voice as they made their way to the litter.

  ‘Where would you get fifty pounds?’ Ian asked.

  ‘We had a bit of luck back on that Muscovite baggage train,’ Conan said. ‘I would like to settle scores.’

  ‘Keep it, Conan,’ Ian said. ‘You have more than earned the money since we arrived here. Nothing much matters more than surviving. Besides, I had some luck that day, too.’

  ‘We are a couple of colonial bushrangers,’ Conan chuckled, and Ian grinned.

  *

  That evening, Ian sat with Herbert around a small fire they had made. Ian passed Herbert a flask of brandy.

  ‘Take a good drink,’ he said. ‘It will help settle your nerves.’

  Herbert did. His whole body still trembled from the experiences of the savage hand-to-hand fighting. Ian secretly acknowledged that he could barely keep his own fears in check, and tried to block out the images that flashed in his mind of death at such close quarters. The rain had turned to drizzle, and the night was bitterly cold as they hunched over the barely flickering flames of the campfire.