The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  Sir Archibald reflected for a moment. From what he had read in the reports from the Eastern front, cholera had killed more British troops than bombs and bullets. But there was no assurance that Samuel would become a victim of the dreaded disease.

  ‘Go ahead and meet your sources financial request,’ he finally said, lifting the newspaper from his lap to peruse news on the business sectors of the British Empire’s economy.

  Charles had been careful not to mention the bonus of eliminating Herbert, as he knew his father would never sanction that. As a matter of fact, Sir Archibald was proud of his youngest son’s service to the Queen on the far-off battlefields of the Crimean Peninsula.

  But why should Herbert share in the vast estate when it really belonged to him on his father’s demise? Alice was not a threat as she was to inherit only a small portion of the estate. The future looked bright – but not for Samuel or Herbert.

  *

  It was another day of manning the siege trenches facing Sebastopol for Ian’s company. Explosive shells fell all around, and one burst in the trench not far from where Ian stood, peering over the lip of the trench. The blast wave threw him off the step, and into the slush of the trench floor. Ian scrambled to his feet as the smoke from the exploding artillery shell cleared in the bitterly cold air.

  He could see parts of two soldiers scattered in gruesome meaty chunks about twenty yards away who had taken a direct hit, and heard the pitiful screams of a badly wounded rifleman who had lost his leg and arm. Ian gritted his teeth and tried to block out the noise. Not that it was hard to cut off sound, as the explosion had partially deafened him.

  He resumed his position on the lip of the trench, and saw them coming in waves.

  ‘To your posts!’ he screamed to the men around him who had been disorganised by the Russian shell.

  They scrambled to the forward edge of the trench to see the advancing Russian infantry, levelling their Enfields.

  A volley of ragged fire immediately produced gaps in the attacking Russian infantry, and before many could reload, the Russians were on top of the British trenches, firing down into the crowded ranks of men below.

  Ian snatched his Colt from the sash around his waist, and unsheathed his sword, just as a Russian soldier leapt into the trench beside him. Ian did not hesitate but fired point blank into the enemy soldier’s face, blowing it away. As usual, Conan and Edwin had ensured they were close to Ian, as the Russians poured into their positions.

  The hand-to-hand fighting was desperate. Men stabbed, bit, punched, grunted and shot each other in the narrow confines of the trench. Ian lunged with his sword at another Russian, who was raising his musket to club Conan who was occupied fighting off an enemy attempting to bayonet him. The sword strike was true, piercing the Russian’s back. The man arched in agony as the blade penetrated through to his sternum. Ian yanked the sword from him, and felt something strike his shoulder. He swung around to see a Russian holding his musket like a club. The distance had been too short to use his bayonet, and he had opted to strike Ian with the butt of his musket. Ian brought up his Colt and fired, hitting the man in the chest. He fell, dropping his musket.

  As the rain drizzled on the desperate close-quarter fighting, Ian could sense the Russian assault fizzle out, leaving the trench floor covered in the bodies of dead and wounded British riflemen and Russian infantry. Ian was gasping for breath as he cast around him for any further threats, but the enemy must have decided to retreat from this slit in the ground that was as good as a grave to both sides. Ian fell back against the side of the trench, exhausted by the intense and desperate need to stay alive. His heart was pounding, and he hardly had the strength to hold his weapons because his hands were trembling so badly. He hardly remembered emptying his Colt in the ferocious fighting in the confines of the trench.

  ‘Are you wounded, sir?’ a familiar voice asked. Ian glanced up to see the bearded face of Corporal Curry, hovering over him with a concerned expression.

  ‘I don’t think I have been wounded,’ Ian said, attempting to struggle to his feet. Conan reached down and helped him stand.

  ‘Pass on the word that I want an account of our dead and wounded,’ Ian said, standing unsteadily in the trench, staring along it to see the mass of bodies. Some on either side were still moving.

  ‘Organise the litter parties to come down here to remove the dead and wounded.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Conan replied and moved down the trench to carry out his company commander’s orders. Ian took deep breaths to recover but still could not stop his body trembling. He explained to himself that the terrible tremors were a result of the bitterly cold air of the Crimean winter, but knew that was not completely true.

  No sooner had Ian raised his head above the parapet than a shot rang out, the musket ball splattering his bloody face with mud. Ian ducked below the forward edge of the trench. It had to be one of the Russian marksmen, concealed in specially constructed pits out in no man’s land. They had plagued his company in the trenches for some days, and already, Ian was formulating a plan to rid them of the enemy marksmen, already having taken the lives of three of his company.

  Ian’s thoughts shifted to the welfare of Herbert’s men stationed up the trench, protecting the right flank of the company positions. The wave of attacking Russian infantry had covered the complete front of the company in their assault. Ian stepped over bodies as he made his way along the trench until he came to the section of the line where Herbert’s soldiers were manning. The scene was very much like the one he had just left.

  To his horror, he saw Colour Sergeant Leslie crouching beside Herbert, who was covered in blood. Ian hurried to Herbert’s side and knelt down.

  ‘Mr Forbes took a bayonet in the hip,’ the colour sergeant said. ‘He needs a surgeon.’

  Ian looked down and saw the blood staining the trousers of Herbert in the groin region. Herbert’s eyes were half closed, and his mouth open. He made no noise but Ian could see the pain in his face.

  ‘Get the litter bearers to him,’ Ian commanded and touched the pain-wracked face of the young man. His fate was now in the hands of their friend, Dr Peter Campbell. In a short time, the men who normally played in the regimental band were carrying Herbert on a stretcher along the trench, to a place where he could be safely evacuated, without the fear of a Russian marksman out in no man’s land shooting them.

  Ian quickly resumed his duties as company commander, taking toll on their casualties – dead and wounded – before he could stop and take out his tobacco pipe. It was a difficult task to simply plug and light the battered pipe with his trembling hands.

  ‘It was a close one,’ Conan said when he sat down next to Ian, his rifle between his knees. ‘We lost a lot of good lads. It is always our company that gets hit hardest, as if someone was placing us in the worst part of the line.’

  Ian listened to the corporal’s remarks and silently agreed. The orders to the regiment from the brigade always seemed to identify Ian’s company to hold the most vulnerable section of the siege trenches. The colonel had said to Ian that was so because those in brigade felt his company had the best record for actions against the enemy, but Ian had a nagging suspicion it was because Major Jenkins wanted him dead. That could not be proved when the colonel thought it was an honour to Ian’s company to take the brunt of trench assaults. From what Ian had read about warfare in the past, this was a totally different style of war. They had telegraph to send messages in real time. Railroads were being built to bring up supplies and, unlike the ranks that had once stood in lines and squares in the open to face the enemy, they now lived in a static world of trenches where artillery and engineers played a greater role. Tunnels were being constructed by either side to lay explosive charges under the opponent’s defences. The tactics for this new kind of war were not even written in military manuals.

  ‘Don’t you know, Corporal Curry, it is an honour to be
chosen by brigade to face the worst the Muscovites can throw at us,’ Ian said facetiously. ‘It may be possible that they are depending on us to win the war on our own.’

  ‘I would gladly forgo the honour to be just one more time with my girl,’ Conan sighed, reaching for his own tobacco pipe. ‘I have received news that she is a nurse at our hospital near Constantinople, and she has written that Owen is recovering very well. He may be back with us in the next couple of weeks.’

  ‘That is good news,’ Ian said. ‘You terrible three make a formidable team. I am proud to have you in my command.’

  Conan fell silent for a moment contemplating the praise. ‘How did you and I ever get to this terrible place of carnage?’ Conan said. ‘It just seems like yesterday – and yet a lifetime ago – we would go to the tavern to get drunk and in the summer, swim in the river. Even now, our friends will be doing just that at home when we find ourselves freezing to death in this bitterly cold hell, living like bloody rabbits in underground burrows, waiting for a musket ball or Muscovite artillery bomb to kill us. Worse, leave us without an arm or leg.’

  ‘Should I remind you, corporal, that you voluntarily signed on for your own reasons, and I am here because I believe it is my destiny to serve the Queen. That is about all I can say about why we are here.’

  The conversation was a rare intimate moment between officer and soldier. But it was also a moment when two men from the Great South Land were able to remember their roots beyond the trenches of the Crimea.

  ‘You know, Corporal Curry,’ Ian said, puffing on his pipe. ‘I think it must be time that we cleared those pesky Muscovite marksmen out of the land between our trenches. How do you think the lads in the company would greet such a mission?’

  ‘Sir, if you lead, they will follow,’ Conan replied with a faint smile. ‘It is certainly a better option than just sitting on our arses, waiting to be picked off.’

  ‘I will talk to the colonel and get his permission to make a sweep of the ground in front of our part of the line. It will be risky, but it will send a message to the Muscovites that they do not own the land out to our front. We do.’

  Ian rose to his feet, tapped his pipe on a piece of timber reinforcing, and strode away, determined to convince his commander of the idea of a sweep of no man’s land. He knew it would be a possibility that he would lose men in the attempt, but it was better than just sitting in the trenches at the mercy of the Russian sharpshooters. Ian knew grimly that his plan would be approved by brigade HQ. After all, it was a grand opportunity to get him killed.

  *

  Dr Peter Campbell had always dreaded this moment. The man laying face up on his operating table in the requisitioned villa was his friend, Lieutenant Herbert Forbes. Peter thought that it was inevitable this moment would occur. Either Samuel or Herbert.

  ‘This is going to hurt,’ Peter said, leaning over Herbert whose face was ashen, and his eyes filled with tears of pain. The trousers had been stripped off, and Peter could see the jagged wound still bleeding, but the Canadian surgeon was pleased to see that the blood was not pumping from a severed artery. Both Peter and the floor were covered in blood from the many amputations he had performed that day. Around him, two other surgeons also worked at a furious rate, removing shattered limbs with saws and tying off ruptured blood vessels. Men screamed in anguish, others bit their lips, sweating in agony. Peter’s supply of chloroform was almost exhausted, but he still had a good supply of carbolic acid.

  ‘Hold Mr Forbes down,’ Peter ordered two elderly assistants. Peter washed his hands in a bowel of red-tinted liquid, and then pushed his finger into the wound, probing to ensure that it had not been a musket ball that had caused the wound.

  Herbert arched as Peter’s finger dug around in his flesh. Although Herbert was suffering excruciating pain, he did not cry out. Just a whimper left his lips as he fell back against the table.

  ‘The good news is that from what I can see, it was not a musket ball wound,’ Peter said, reaching for a fresh bottle of carbolic acid to wash the wound. ‘Herbert, dear boy, I am going to bandage the wound, and recommend that you be sent to our hospital outside Constantinople. The doctors there will monitor your condition, and I am sure that you will be on your feet in no time.’

  Herbert nodded his understanding, the pain leaving him speechless. As he was taken by the orderlies to have his wound dressed, Peter prepared his table for another soldier laid out in front of him with a shattered arm. It never ended for the overworked Canadian doctor, whose only respite from the carnage was the constant flow of letters from Alice. Peter had seen enough of war, and promised himself that when it was over, he would return to London, marry Alice and set up a practice in some quiet part of the British Isles where the scent of flowers pervaded, and he could hopefully forget the acrid stench of blood of the Crimean battlefields.

  Thirty

  Ian huddled with the men of his company below the parapet in the darkness that came before the dawn. They shivered in the biting cold, hands trembling as they gripped the stocks of their rifled muskets.

  As usual, Conan had placed himself close to Ian, as did Edwin. Ian had ensured that he had the new officer, Lieutenant Sutton, close by, carrying the regimental colours. In the half-light, he could see the fear in the young officer’s face. He would be the target of every Russian sharpshooter out to their front.

  ‘Corporal Curry, I want you and Private Williams to keep an eye on Mr Sutton,’ Ian said quietly.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Conan replied.

  Ian checked his revolvers, and armed himself with an Enfield, bayonet attached. The waiting was the worst part of being in a battle, and Ian tried to take his mind off what lay ahead with thoughts of Jane. Where was she, and why had not she written? Ian calculated that if all had gone well, he was now a father to either a son or daughter.

  ‘Sir, the brigade staff are here,’ Conan said, forcing Ian to relinquish his more pleasant thoughts of Jane’s beautiful face.

  Ian turned his head to see three brigade officers approach his position, including Major Jenkins.

  ‘You have come to join us when we go over the top, sir?’ Ian asked, addressing Major Jenkins with an edge of sarcasm.

  ‘No, Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins replied. ‘We have come to observe the events ahead. I wish you good luck.’

  Ian knew that the staff officer did not mean his good wishes, but had come to hopefully observe his death.

  ‘It won’t be luck, but speed and surprise, that will carry the day,’ Ian said, glancing at the sky taking on the first rays of the bitterly cold day. Ian felt the knot in his stomach tighten, and knew it was time. He turned to a young man, hardly in his teens, and gave the order.

  ‘Bugler, sound the tune.’

  The bugler raised his instrument, and played the signal to attack. With a mighty roar, the company soldiers scrambled up ladders to go over the edge of the trench.

  Ian ensured he was first over the top, followed closely by the colour party. The young colour officer had stuttered his order to his party guarding the regimental flag, but they were already out of the trench before he could finish his last word.

  At first, no shots were fired at the line of infantrymen spread out in a long skirmish line, advancing across the mud and snow slush that lay between the Russian and British trenches. Then a rattle of small arms fire erupted as the Russian sharpshooters opened fire. They were answered with fire from the advancing British infantry. Already, some of the Russians realised what was happening and made attempts to flee back to their own lines. They were either shot down or bayoneted when the men of Ian’s company ran after them.

  ‘Keep the line!’ Ian roared, and then noticed that a mass of Russian infantry were pouring over the tops of their trenches to confront Ian’s company in no man’s land. Ian had been prepared for this to occur, and turned to the bugler close on his heels.

  ‘Sound retreat,�
� he ordered but the words were hardly out of his mouth when a musket ball cut the young boy down. He fell with an expression of surprise, still holding the bugle to his lips. The blood spread on the front of the young boy’s chest, and Ian knew he was dead. Hopefully the men of the company would assess the situation, and retreat on their own accord, as they had been briefed before the mission to clear the sharpshooters. At least the Russians would be forced not to use their artillery, as their infantry were so close to the British enemy.

  Off to Ian’s right, he could see the colour party stop. The flag fluttered in the cold breeze, and Ian groaned when he saw it had become the prime target of the attacking Russians. Musket balls ripped through the men around the colours, and Ian saw Lieutenant William Sutton suddenly pitch back, still grimly holding the staff of the flag. Ian saw Conan immediately go to Mr Sutton’s aid, and once again, raise the standard while covering the wounded officer. Beside Conan was Edwin, firing and reloading as fast as a highly skilled rifleman could. Ian turned to see a small group of Russians coming directly towards him, and fired his rifle, knocking down one of the Russians. He dropped the rifle and pulled out his revolver and his sword, all the time screaming, ‘Fall back!’

  When Ian levelled his pistol and fired at the small group of Russians, they hesitated in their attempt to kill or capture him. They were aware that the revolver held at least five more balls in the chambers, and stopped to reload their muskets. Ian knew that he was a dead man if they all fired upon him, so he immediately went on the offensive, charging the group with his bayonet-tipped rifle in one hand and revolver in the other. He was on them before they could react, and Ian fired until his revolver was empty. He was able to stab the last remaining threat, fumbling with his ram rod, with a thrust through the Russian’s throat, although he had aimed for his chest. The battle had come down to just this few yards surrounding Ian. But he knew his primary role was to command his company, and Ian fell back to quickly assess the situation. He was pleased to see his men were retreating in good order, and would soon fall under the protection of the artillery guns and rifles of his regiment in the trenches behind them.