by Peter Watt
‘How much longer do you think our luck will hold out?’ Herbert asked, staring intently at the flickering flames. ‘So many of the company died today, and yet, we are still alive.’
‘Only God can answer that question,’ Ian replied, taking a long sip of the fiery liquid. ‘Anyway, I promised Alice that I would take care of you. A promise is a promise.’
A figure loomed out of the night. Ian glanced up to see Corporal Curry standing over them, leaning on a length of stick.
‘Dr Campbell bandaged the wound, and said I was fit for service, sir,’ he said. ‘But Private Owen Williams is being sent to some hospital away from the Crimea.’
‘Join us, Corporal,’ Ian said, waving the brandy flask in the air. ‘We shall drink to our glorious victory today, and remember those who are unable to share our luck. To the brave lads of the regiment who fell here today,’ Ian said, raising the flask, and passing it to Conan who, in turn, echoed the toast to the dead.
‘Sir, I should go and tell Edwin about Owen’s fate,’ Conan said.
‘You are excused, Corporal Curry, and I would add that you fought damn well today. You are a credit to us colonials.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Conan said, standing up and gazing into the darkness dotted by the many small fires of the night. ‘We had good leaders.’
He walked away, leaving Ian and Herbert alone.
‘I think I should return to my men,’ Herbert said, and Ian nodded. When Herbert was gone, Ian felt the weariness overcome him. As desperately tired as he was, when he lay down on the earth under his greatcoat, he had trouble closing his eyes. Sleep finally came, and the nightmares returned. None cared when they heard the whimpering, for they were being echoed as the soldiers sought sleep in the night.
In his dreams Ian kept seeing the circle of stones, and now he associated them as a circle of death. The silence from Jane haunted him.
*
Molly stood outside the huge, former Turkish barracks located near the Ottoman capital of Constantinople. It stood at three levels and was designed as a massive rectangular building with an open parade ground. The British army had taken over the barracks and converted them into a hospital.
Molly was not alone. As they waited to enter the hospital, she was surrounded by fifteen Catholic nuns, wearing their habits, and a small group of young ladies Florence Nightingale had recruited in England.
Both trepidation and excitement buzzed amongst the party of women waiting to enter the hospital, and an army surgeon covered in blood greeted them.
Molly was close enough to hear the conversation that passed between Miss Nightingale, and the gruff, army surgeon. Florence was in her mid-thirties and wore her long dark hair in a tight bun, parted in the middle, as was the style of the day.
‘I must be honest, Miss Nightingale,’ the doctor said. ‘We were informed that you were coming, but protested that an army hospital is not the appropriate place for women to act as nurses. You will be exposed to the horrors of war in such a place, and it is well known that ladies are of a delicate nature.’
Undaunted, Florence stood her ground. ‘We will see, doctor,’ she said firmly. ‘I know how overwhelmed your staff is dealing with the sick and wounded. We have all read the reports in the newspapers at home. So, we will see how delicate my staff are when dealing with the fine soldiers of the Queen.’
Florence turned to her party, giving the order to enter the hospital.
Molly followed and the first thing that struck her was the terrible stench of putrefaction, vomit, and unwashed bodies.
Then she saw the men laying about on the floors in their own filth; bloody, dirty bandages wrapped around the stumps of amputated arms and legs. Men whimpered or moaned in pain as the women walked amongst them, some of the soon-to-be nurses holding handkerchiefs to their noses in an attempt to hide the foul stench of the over-crowded ward.
‘One of our first tasks will be to scrub out the hospital,’ Florence said to the accompanying army surgeon. ‘Then we need to organise these men onto clean beds.’ The doctor shrugged.
‘You will have to find the items you need yourself,’ he said. ‘We are too busy dealing with the wounded.’
‘I will,’ Florence said. ‘But first, I want to see where my nurses will be quartered.’
The doctor called to an orderly, an old man who had once been a soldier. ‘Show Miss Nightingale her quarters,’ he said and strode away to continue operating on the many wounded being shipped to them from the Crimea. The battle of Inkerman had placed his staff of surgeons under great stress, with the numbers of wounded flowing in, and, always, the cholera cases continuing to mount.
Molly was overwhelmed by the work ahead of her, and her nursing sisters.
She hardly had the heart to look at the many wounded and sick soldiers in their bloody uniforms, fighting back tears for their piteous plight.
‘Molly?’
The barely whispered question came from a soldier sitting against one of the walls, and Molly turned to see who had called her name. She stared at the dirty and unshaven man, his uniform was covered in blood.
‘Owen!’ she gasped, stepping past other wounded men to reach him. When she did, she knelt beside her brother. ‘Is it really you?’
Owen tried to reach up to touch his sister’s face. ‘I must be dead,’ he said hoarsely. ‘How is it possible that you are here in this hellhole?’
‘It is a long story, but how are Conan and Edwin?’ she asked, tears welling in her eyes.
‘Last time I saw them, they were well. But that was many days ago,’ Owen said. ‘I got a Muscovite bayonet through the shoulder, and they sent me here. Oh, what a joy to see your face one more time before the grim reaper takes me.’
‘You will not die, Owen Williams,’ Molly said firmly. ‘I have come to look after you, as you did for me when we were young.’
Tears streamed down both Molly’s and Owen’s faces as Molly gripped her brother’s hands. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked.
‘Water,’ Owen gasped.
‘Miss Williams,’ Florence said behind her. ‘You must come along. There will be time later to talk to the soldiers.’
Molly rose obediently to her feet, reluctant to let go of her brother’s hands. He smiled weakly and let go as Molly joined Florence.
‘It is not a good idea to become familiar with the soldiers,’ Florence said firmly.
‘He is my brother,’ Molly replied, wiping away her tears with the back of her hand as she stumbled through the rows of sick and wounded men.
Florence did not answer immediately. Then she said gently, ‘They are all our brothers, sons, husbands and fathers.’
Twenty-Six
The days passed in a flurry of cleaning out the hospital, changing bandages, and scrounging for better food for the sick and wounded. Molly ensured that her brother received all the medical help she could plead from the medical staff. An old Turkish woman who sold treats to the soldiers noticed Molly with her brother, and could see the concern on the young woman’s face. She shuffled over to Molly and Owen, who was now in a bed, looking down on the feverish soldier.
She said something which Molly did not understand until one of the nuns intervened.
‘The old woman wishes to know what kind of wound the soldier has,’ she said.
‘You understand Turkish, sister?’ Molly asked, surprised at the older nun’s skill.
‘Yes, my order has a convent in Constantinople and I spent years here, and I learned the language,’ she said. ‘I have told her that the soldier is your brother, and he has a bayonet wound that went through his shoulder. She told me she has something to help fight any infection.’
‘Tell her that I will try anything if it will help Owen,’ Molly said, and the nun spoke with the Turkish woman, who produced a bulbous herb, cutting it into slices with a small knife, and handing the sli
ced, pungent smelling pieces to the nun.
‘It is a herb called garlic,’ the nun said. ‘She says that it should be applied to the wounds.’
Molly took the strong-smelling garlic pieces and placed them over the entry and exit wounds. Molly than wrapped a clean bandage around the poultice. Owen squirmed as the garlic stung his exposed flesh. The old Turkish woman smiled knowingly.
‘Ask the woman how much do I pay her?’ Molly asked.
The nun translated, and turned to Molly. ‘She said the treatment is free as she lost her son fighting the Russians. She also said that if your brother felt the stinging effect of the garlic, it means his flesh is still healthy.’
‘Please thank the old lady,’ Molly said. ‘Tell her that I will say prayers for her son.’
The nun spoke and turned to Molly. ‘She is grateful for your kind thoughts, but Allah is looking after her son, who died a martyr’s death.’
The old Turkish lady nodded to Molly and shuffled away, selling her trinkets and fresh fruits to the sick and wounded in the ward that now smelled of antiseptic cleaner.
‘Thank you, sister,’ Molly said, and the nun resumed her duties tending the wounded.
When she was gone, Owen was alert enough to speak in a whisper. ‘Molly, there is something I must tell you,’ he said. ‘Conan, Edwin and I came into some good fortune at Balaclava. As a result, we have been able to get our hands on a couple of hundred pounds each, and Conan insisted that you receive an equal share. He is holding it for you. It is more money than we have ever seen before.’
‘Are you delirious, Owen Williams?’ Molly asked, stunned at her brother’s news.
‘No, Molly,’ he replied. ‘It has come from a Russian baggage train we fell upon, and the money is a fortune of war. Even the officers took all they could. I know that the Irishman is sweet on you.’
Molly shook her head. What her brother was telling her was beyond her wildest dreams. Money to ward off poverty! But beyond all the money in the world, her first concern was that her wounded brother survive. No money fortune in her life could buy his life.
‘I have proof of what I am telling you.’ Owen said. ‘Sewn inside my trousers is my share of the money. Do not let anyone take my trousers to be laundered. I would like you to retrieve my share for safekeeping.’
‘I will do that,’ Molly said, and later that night, returned with scissors. She was dumbfounded when she slit the trousers to discover the wad of notes which she quickly concealed in her skirt. It was indeed more money than she ever thought she would hold in her hands.
*
Winter had truly arrived in the Crimea, with a hurricane that tore away the bell tents of the enlisted men, and officers’ tents. Rain, bitter cold, and then snow fell to add to the misery. It was at least a campaign where soldier and officer experienced the same hardships as they waited for the bloody war to continue at the siege of Sebastopol.
Ian stood in a trench of half-frozen slush, mud and patches of dirty snow, wearing his greatcoat and shivering like all the other soldiers manning the trench. It was a dark night and Ian knew that only a few meagre supplies would be brought up the five miles from the port of Balaclava. The group of soldiers standing guard in the trench were all new recruits. The previous months had decimated the regiment’s ranks, and the fact that Private Edwin Williams and Corporal Curry remained made them battle-hardened veterans. Ian rarely saw his friend, Dr Peter Campbell, as his duties treating sick and wounded men were never-ending.
As many as possible were transported by ship to the hospital near Constantinople, and in return came a letter from Molly to Conan. It informed him and Edwin that she was a nurse with Miss Florence Nightingale’s English contingent, and that Owen was recovering slowly from his wound. She also wrote of the present he had brought to her, imploring that he and Edwin take care of themselves.
Conan had been both stunned and overjoyed to read the letter, passing on the news to Edwin, who wept with joy.
It was now January and cholera continued to thin the ranks more than the occasional sniping Russian marksman. Ian had verified stories of the French soldiers swapping food items with the Russians, each side leaving the small gifts in places they knew their enemy would go. It was as if both sides recognised they were suffering because of the incompetence of their respective governments.
‘A good evening to you, sir,’ Ian turned to see Corporal Curry, and Private Edwin Williams standing beside him in the trench. Both soldiers shivered under their greatcoats.
‘I wish it was a good evening, Corporal Curry,’ Ian said. ‘Just bloody cold, and wet.’
‘At least the Muscovites are suffering the same as us out there,’ Conan replied.
‘But not in Sebastopol in their houses,’ Ian said. ‘That is where we should have been, if the French had listened to Raglan’s advice to attack when we had the men to do so.’
Conan did not comment. He had little knowledge of the overall war strategy. All he was concerned about was just staying alive, and keeping the men of his section in the same state.
‘I saw Major Jenkins at brigade headquarters today,’ Edwin said. ‘He is looking hale and hearty.’
This time, Ian kept his mouth shut. As much as he despised the man, it was a rule no officer spoke ill of another in front of the enlisted men, although he was aware of their low opinion of the former lieutenant.
‘As a matter of fact, he recognised me, and said to pass on a message to you that he has grand plans for the company.’
Ian was puzzled by the message. Jenkins should have delivered it to him in person, as the company commander.
‘Edwin, I want you to look to the lads of the section and make sure they are awake at their posts,’ Conan said, and Edwin made his way down the trench, leaving Conan and Ian alone in the dark.
‘Do you know that back home in Australia, it is summer, and we would all go down to the river to swim. That feels like a lifetime ago,’ Conan said wistfully in the bitter chill of the night, and drizzling snowflakes falling around them.
‘I remember,’ Ian said. ‘Maybe one day, we will again.’
‘I never asked why you are pretending to be that Samuel Forbes person,’ Conan blurted. ‘You know I have sworn to go to my grave with your secret, but I would like to know why.’
‘It is a long story, but a twist of fate gave me the chance to see what it was like to be an officer of the Queen,’ Ian replied.
‘There is not a day that I don’t regret all that happened back in the village,’ Conan said. ‘I wish that I was still in the colony and could turn back time.’
‘Right now, so do I,’ Ian said with a bitter smile. ‘This whole war has been nothing but a bloody mess. All we have to do is survive it.’
‘Captain Forbes,’ a voice called in the dark from down the trench. ‘I am looking for Captain Forbes.’
‘That is me,’ Ian said when a well-dressed young lieutenant came close with a lantern held aloft.
‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ the officer said. ‘But you are required at brigade HQ to meet with Major Jenkins just after first light in morning.’
‘Inform Major Jenkins that I will report to him,’ Ian said, and the staff officer made his way out of the forward trench, retreating to the relative warmth of the brigade HQ.
‘It must be something to do with the grand plan Major Jenkins has for us, sir,’ Conan said sarcastically as Edwin rejoined them to report all the section were alert at their posts.
‘You can stand your section down, Corporal Curry,’ Ian said. ‘Mr Forbes is sending up a section to relieve you.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Conan said, knowing they would find there a small campfire to eat their rations and smoke a pipe before badly needed sleep in the confines of a house that had been wrecked by artillery fire weeks earlier. It at least gave some protection against the biting winds of winter.
Ian found Jenkins’ tent, and entered without saluting. Jenkins was busy signing papers, glancing up at Ian.
‘You will salute a superior officer, Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins said coldly.
Ian gave a half-hearted salute, and grudgingly stood to attention. ‘You may sit,’ Jenkins said, gesturing to a wooden stool. Ian sat as Jenkins completed the signatures on the papers before him.
‘I have a mission for your company,’ Jenkins said. ‘One suited to your previous demonstration of what I consider foolishness, but others feel was an act of bravado.’
‘You mean going out in front of our lines to strike the Muscovites,’ Ian said.
Jenkins rose from behind his table, walking over to a map of the region hanging on the wall of his tent.
‘We have information that a high-ranking Russian officer in Sebastopol wishes to desert. We have smuggled in letters to say where we can meet with him at a specified rendezvous point, and he insists that whoever does so must be a senior officer of the British army. Needless to say, I immediately thought that you would accept the honour of meeting with our Russian aristocrat, who will be able to provide us with invaluable intelligence on the state of the Muscovite forces within the defences of the city. You will select a party of no more than five men, including yourself, and I also suggest that you take your brother with you in case you are disabled in some way during the mission, so he can act as your second-in-command for the task. The meeting is to be here at first light tomorrow,’ Jenkins said, pointing to a place on the map. ‘It is a ruined, abandoned villa.’