by Peter Watt
Suddenly, an explosion erupted a hundred yards to their left, and Ian realised that the artillery guns had been brought forward and had entered the unequal battle.
‘C’mon boys, time to go home,’ Ian said, and they plunged into the rapidly darkening forest of tall trees. Ian made sure that in the dim light, none of the party were separated, and soon the forest was cast into night. They had stumbled, fallen, got up and stumbled on in the dark, until Ian called a halt.
Exhausted, they fell to the snow, hardly feeling its bitter chill. When Ian was satisfied that they were all together, he had the first opportunity to reflect on how they had escaped the jaws of death with his desperate plan. He also suspected that the Russian infantry would have halted at the tree line, knowing that to go any further in the dark would cause only confusion and the possibility of an ambush, should there be British or French troops laying up in the area.
‘We did it, thanks to you, Sam.’ Herbert gasped through lungs burned by cold and exhaustion.
‘We still have to get back to our lines,’ Ian cautioned. ‘Despite how tired we are, we must march now to make sure the Muscovites don’t decide to change their minds and come looking for us with torches. I suspect that they are not going to be pleased losing so many men to such a small force of British soldiers. I doubt that they will consider taking us alive, under the circumstances.’
The exhausted men reluctantly pushed themselves to their feet, and with the use of his compass, Ian led them home. Before sunrise, they could see the plain where they knew their forward trenches were. Smoke rose from campfires beyond, and the distant chatter of British troops could be heard on the chill wind that blew from the east.
Before mid-morning, they stumbled into their own lines.
Twenty-Eight
Ian made his way to the regimental colonel’s tent, to report the outcome of the mission that Major Jenkins from brigade HQ, had sent him on. Ian did not voice his suspicion that the mission had been an ambush, but simply said that they had failed to meet with the supposed deserting high-ranking Russian officer.
‘Strange,’ the colonel said from behind his desk, as Ian stood at-ease in the tent. ‘I was not informed of your orders. I suppose brigade felt it was of such a sensitive nature, the less people who knew, the better it was. From your report, Captain Forbes, you have acquitted yourself very well, inflicting losses on the Muscovites, and at the same time using your remarkable ingenuity to make your escape. You are to be commended.’
‘Thank you, sir, but it is the high standard of the soldiers we lead that ensured our success,’ Ian said, his mind going over the circumstances of Jenkins ordering him to undertake such a risky venture.
‘Very good, Captain Forbes. You may return to your company and pass on my congratulations to your brother and the men who accompanied you. You will be mentioned in my despatches.’
Ian saluted the colonel, and stepped outside the tent to return to his company, when he saw Jenkins approaching with four armed soldiers marching behind him.
‘Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins called, and Ian halted. ‘You are under arrest for deserting your post. You are to be placed under guard in your quarters, until a court is convened to hear the charges.’
Ian half-expected that Jenkins would attempt to discredit him in some way, but not his arrest for desertion. His fury rose and, for a moment, he was tempted to reach for the big Colt Dragoon revolver in his waistband.
‘Your arms, Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins commanded, and Ian obliged by removing his two pistols.
The guard of soldiers stepped forward, taking possession of Ian’s weapons and then escorted Ian through the lines to his tent. As they did, soldiers of the company were dumbfounded seeing their commander under close arrest, being marched through their ranks. Men muttered, and the confusion in the ranks was obvious.
When they reached the tent, Ian turned to Jenkins. ‘I pray that Mr Forbes is not under arrest,’ he said.
‘Your brother has been deemed as obeying the orders of a superior officer, and probably not aware of your treachery,’ Jenkins replied. ‘Nor were the men who followed you beyond our lines.’
‘If I was deserting, how do you explain my return?’ Ian asked. ‘After all, it was you who gave me the mission.’
‘I do not remember issuing any orders for you to go beyond our lines,’ Jenkins lied, and Ian had the urge to punch the lying superior officer in the face.
‘You and I both know, Major Jenkins, that I, and my men, were sent into a trap of your prior knowledge. I expect you did not think we would return alive, and your weak and desperate measure to accuse me of desertion has no basis. My only question is why you would attempt to have me killed.’
Jenkins reddened. He had not expected to see Ian return. He had read a copy of the report sent up to brigade HQ and panicked. This was the only option he thought he had to discredit the bravery of the men he had sent to their probable deaths.
‘A guard will be posted outside your tent, and your meals will be brought to you until the time a court martial in the field is convened,’ he said. ‘As there is nothing else to be discussed, I will leave you.’
Ian did not salute his superior officer, and Jenkins was wise enough to not insist. When he looked into the eyes of the captain, he saw a cold threat of violence.
Ian entered his tent and slumped down on the end of the cot that was his bed. Only minutes earlier, he had been congratulated by his commanding officer for the success of retreating from the enemy under fire. Now he could be found guilty of deserting his post, and possibly stripped of his commission. At least it was not the practice to execute officers for such a military crime. Only lowly soldiers were executed for such crimes.
*
Word of the popular company commander under arrest ran up and down the regimental lines like an out of control wildfire in a conifer forest. Conan was cleaning his rifle by a campfire when Edwin hurried to him from the bell tent they shared.
‘That bastard, Major Jenkins, has had Captain Forbes arrested on charges of desertion, Conan,’ he said, out of breath. ‘What is going on?’
Conan lay his rifle over his knees, and reached for his pipe. Taking a burning twig from the coals, he lit the tobacco, and blew a grey puff of smoke into the frozen air. ‘When Jenkins went to water with the company a few months back, he knew that we all saw his cowardice. I think he wants to punish the captain for being the superior officer that day, who saw what he is really like. He will do anything to bring Captain Forbes down, the gutless swine that Jenkins is.’
‘What can we do?’ Edwin asked, squatting beside the Irishman.
‘Not much,’ Conan replied, puffing on his pipe. ‘This is an officer matter.’
But he picked up his rifle and stared at it. What if a Russian marksman was lurking just outside their lines, and took a shot at Major Jenkins? Conan mused. He knew that under the right conditions, he could just pull off the fatal shot. Maybe then the cowardly brigade officer could not lie to the officers sitting on the court martial board about Ian’s supposed desertion from his post. Conan sighed. It was just a dream.
‘We have to go and see Mr Forbes about his brother’s situation,’ Conan said. ‘He is an officer, and able to speak with the colonel on Captain Forbes’ behalf. That’s about all we can do.’
Both soldiers made their way to Herbert’s tent and saw their officer in company with Captain Miles Sinclair. Conan saluted, and the two officers turned to him.
‘Yes, Corporal Curry?’ Herbert said, and Conan could see the expression of worry in his face.
‘Sir, Private Williams and I have come to you to see if we can help Captain Forbes.’
‘Your intentions are good, Corporal, but there is little you can do at this stage for Captain Forbes. But I thank you for your offer.’
‘Captain Forbes is an officer we all respect, sir,’ Conan continued. ‘Major Je
nkins is lying.’
‘You know that I cannot listen to criticism of a superior officer, Corporal Curry,’ Herbert said, but his face belied his reprimand. ‘Captain Sinclair and I will be speaking with the colonel on this matter.’
‘Very good, sir,’ Conan said, saluted and walked away with Edwin.
‘Bloody officers and their ways,’ Edwin hissed. ‘It’s his own brother, and all he can do is rebuke our help.’
‘I told you that it is an officer matter,’ Conan growled. ‘Let’s hope they can work it out between the gentlemen they are supposed to be.’
*
Four officers stood stiffly before the colonel’s desk. Ian was one, then there was Captain Sinclair, Lieutenant Forbes, and Major Jenkins.
‘Sir, I must protest Captain Forbes being brought here,’ Jenkins said. ‘He is under orders from brigade HQ to be held under close arrest in his quarters.’
‘I am sure, Major Jenkins, that the armed guard stationed outside, will protect us from Captain Forbes,’ the colonel replied sarcastically. ‘It has been brought to my attention that Captain Forbes has been charged with deserting his post in an attempt to communicate with the enemy. A very serious charge, and I feel that I should clear up this matter before it gets out of hand. I ordered Captain Forbes to take a small party of men to carry out a reconnaissance of the area. I am sure my order must have been mislaid somewhere in your brigade HQ.’
‘Sir, but it was I . . .’ With a red face, Jenkins stopped himself.
‘It was you who did what, Major Jenkins?’ the colonel asked, leaning forward across the table in front of him. ‘Order Captain Forbes to fetch a high-ranking Muscovite deserting from Sebastopol?’
Trapped, Jenkins found his mouth go dry, and he swallowed. ‘Sir, I must caution you that this will be brought up with those highest in the staff at brigade.’
‘It will be my word as a regimental colonel against your word, in such a case. Who do you think those high-ranking officers at brigade will believe?’
Ian stood at attention, hardly believing what he was hearing from the regimental commander. He was prepared to fabricate a lie to defend one of his officers, and suddenly Ian realised that he was a part of a family whose colours on the battlefield were the true symbol of a family, that protected each other in war and peace.
‘Do you have anything else to add, Major Jenkins?’ the colonel said, and Ian swore he could see a smirk on the colonel’s face. ‘If not, Captain Forbes will have his arms returned, and take his post as one of my more capable company commanders.’
Ian had the pleasure of seeing Jenkins squirm, face red with embarrassment, and frustrated rage for being brought to heel by the colonel sitting smugly behind his desk. He saluted, turned on his heel, and stormed out of the tent, leaving them alone.
‘I would like to have a word in private with Captain Forbes,’ the colonel said, and then both Miles and Herbert saluted before leaving the tent.
‘Captain Forbes, I do not like to lie, but I have no time for a fancy upstart interfering in the command of my regiment. After hearing from your brother, and Captain Sinclair, and looking at all the facts, I do not believe in the preposterous story Major Jenkins told me about you deserting your post. You are an officer in my regiment, and not one who works for brigade HQ. Next time a matter of similar circumstances arises, I want to be informed – regardless of its secrecy.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,’ Ian replied. He knew it would not be wise to attempt to explain why he had foolishly trusted the brigade officer. To Ian, it had been an opportunity to break the boredom they were all suffering in this bitter siege of the Russians at the port of Sebastopol. It had been an impulsive act on his behalf that could have got them all killed.
‘That is all, Captain Forbes,’ the colonel said, and Ian saluted.
Outside the tent, Ian had his side arms reluctantly returned on Jenkins’ orders.
‘This is not the last of this matter,’ Jenkins snarled before marching away to brigade HQ. ‘Not even your own family cares for you.’
Ian watched this superior officer who had proved to be just as dangerous as any Russian soldier, and wondered at his parting remark. Surely Jenkins could not be in a conspiracy with Charles? From his short experience, Ian knew that the family ties in the higher levels of British aristocracy ran strong. Ian remembered how Charles had planned an ambush on him and Dr Campbell back in England. Now, it seemed his reach extended even to the Crimea. If so, Ian knew that Major Jenkins was in a position to put him and his company in grave danger.
Ian marched through the dirty snow, flattened by many army boots, to his tent. As he passed through the company lines, a rousing cheer rose from the throats of his men. The sound was heard all the way over at brigade HQ by Major Jenkins, who uttered curses of frustration.
*
Molly sat by her brother’s bed, feeding him a hot broth from a spoon. His recovery had been remarkable, as the doctors attending Owen’s wound had predicted infection, but his body had fought the dreaded putrefaction. Molly was not sure if it had been the garlic, the prayers of her friend, Sister Agnes, the older nun who spoke Turkish that had helped in the healing, or simply luck.
‘When we get out of the army, we will have enough money to buy a pub in London,’ Owen said as Molly spooned the broth.
‘No, we will purchase a little shop, and I will make confectionaries we will sell.’
Owen looked at his sister thoughtfully. He remembered how she would scrounge sugar to make a few boiled lollies, which hardly cooled before they were eaten by he and Edwin, when they were young and living in Wales. His sister had a talent for improvising, and he admitted, a good head on her shoulders for business. Even Ikey the Jew had once offered her more money to look after his books, but then he was forced to disappear with the police on his trail for shady dealings in the underworld.
‘That sounds like a good proposition,’ Owen said. ‘A respectable means of employment. But what would Edwin and I do in the business?’
‘Do not forget that Conan is a part of our family now,’ Molly said, wiping excess broth from around Owen’s lips with a clean cloth. ‘I would expect you to peddle our wares around the streets. There would be times you would also help in the cooking, and managing in our shop. There is a lot to do running a successful business.’
‘Do you think we could make a good go of the business?’ Owen asked.
‘With hard, honest work, we could make a steady income on our wares,’ Molly said.
‘Then I am in with my share, Molly,’ Owen said and fell into a melancholic state. ‘I don’t want to go back to the regiment. I will only go back because Edwin and Conan are there.’
Molly had occasionally walked the wards at night with a lamp, following the example of Miss Nightingale. She had heard the sounds of wounded men whimpering, twitching as they relived the trauma of combat. When she had sat by Owen’s bed, holding his hand in the dark, she could feel him trembling, sometimes crying out in his troubled sleep. There was something in the heads of soldiers who had experienced the bloodiness of battle that stayed with them, she noted. They did not talk about it, but their bodies continued to tremble during the waking hours.
‘I am sure that the war will be over soon,’ Molly said, attempting to sound confident.
‘Not until we take Sebastopol,’ Owen said quietly, remembering the sight of the heavily fortified port town with its artillery and vast numbers of tough Russian infantry. Every soldier knew that eventually the city would have to be taken to force the Tsar to the peace table. Until then, death would remain supreme as lord of their destinies. Until that time, the hopes of a quiet life of prosperity were merely a dream.
Twenty-Nine
Charles Forbes opened the letter from Crimea. He sat in the billiard room at his London residence, taking in all that was proposed in veiled words in the letter from Major Jenkins.
It appeared that Captain Samuel Forbes led a charmed life and killing him would be much harder than simply dismissing a gambling debt. He proposed for a substantial deposit into his London bank account that could promise Captain Forbes would not be returning from the Crimea, and for a further deposit he could also promise that neither would Herbert.
Charles carefully folded the letter and went in search of his father. Sir Archibald was, as usual, engrossed in reading the articles published from the front by William Russell.
‘Damned bad show from what that cad Russell is writing in The Times,’ Sir Archibald snorted when Charles entered the room. ‘A real cock-up if you ask me.’
Charles sat down. ‘Father, I have someone well-placed to remove Samuel from the family.’
Archibald laid down his newspaper. ‘Who may that be?’ he asked.
‘It is not someone that you have to know of,’ Charles said. ‘But I can assure you he is in a position in the Crimea to see that Samuel does not return.’
‘I presume that he wants money for services to be rendered,’ Sir Archibald said. ‘How much?’
Charles mentioned the figure, raising Sir Archibald’s brow.
‘Are you sure that your source is able to fulfil his promise to rid us of that bastard son of my brother?’ Sir Archibald queried again.
‘I am sure he is able to manipulate a situation to have Samuel killed. You can then be seen as a father who has personally lost a beloved son fighting for the Queen and Empire. All I need is your authorisation to pay the money.’