The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  But no covering fire was observed. Ian and his men fell back under the musket shots of the pursuing Russians. Ian could see Conan and Colour Sergeant Leslie dragging the wounded young officer back, while Conan and Edwin also fended off a small party of Russians attempting to take the regimental colours from them. Ian knew how important it was to save the colours, and fought his way to Conan.

  ‘Get the colours back to the trenches,’ he yelled above the din of musket fire. ‘Private Williams and I will cover you.’

  Ian had his revolver out, and quickly reloaded the chambers while watching the scattered fighting in the field. Why was there no covering fire?

  The revolver proved effective in keeping off the Russians, and the survivors of the company tumbled into the safety of their trenches. Ian could see the colours were also now safely back, and slumped for a moment at the bottom of the trench to gather his thoughts. Then he saw Major Jenkins with the two other staff officers. Ian launched himself to his feet and strode towards the staff officers.

  ‘Sir, was there some reason that my company did not get support fire when we were retreating?’ he asked in a cold fury, as he already suspected the despised officer had something to do with the failure for protection.

  ‘I deemed it too dangerous to fire on the Russians, so as to avoid shooting our own men.’ Jenkins replied casually. ‘I am sure that you understand, Captain Forbes.’

  ‘Sir, the men of my regiment are trained to select their targets carefully before firing. They could easily have provided covering fire for our retreat, and saved the lives of the men of the company, now lying out there dead and wounded. Your decision has cost a lot more lives than was necessary.’

  ‘Are you accusing me of incompetence, Captain Forbes?’ Jenkins flared. ‘Sir, that is a serious charge that you have made before my fellow officers from the brigade.’

  Ian felt his rage rising, and dropped his hand to the handle of his big Colt revolver. A hush had fallen on the soldiers nearby, listening to every word between the arrogant brigade officer and their regimental officer they knew and trusted. Ian fought to control his anger. It was not for himself, but the men who had needlessly been lost because of the decision made by Jenkins.

  ‘Captain Forbes!’ Ian recognised the voice of the colonel behind him. ‘I am sure you have duties with your company.’ Ian turned to see the colonel, and Captain Miles Sinclair standing in the trench.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Ian responded, taking his hand away from the handle of his Colt. ‘I will attend to my duties.’

  ‘Good show,’ the colonel said, and Ian saluted him as he walked away down the trench to the survivors of his company.

  ‘Well done, sir,’ a soldier said as he passed by. When Ian reached his company HQ, he saw Conan attempting to staunch the blood flowing from the young officer lying in the muddy bottom of the trench. Ian could see that he had taken a musket ball in the stomach, and knew that his chances of surviving the agonising wound were about nil. Conan glanced up at Ian, who shook his head before kneeling down beside the stricken young officer.

  ‘You did the regiment proud today, Mr Sutton,’ he said gently, taking the hand of the dying man. ‘You ensured we did not lose the colours.’

  Young William tried to smile his gratitude, but grimaced from the pain instead. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he gasped, and closed his eyes as if that would make the pain go away.

  ‘Get the litter bearers here now,’ Ian said, standing to give his order. He turned to Conan, who he could see had tears in his eyes. His face was blackened by gunpowder stains, as were those of the others who watched the pathetic scene with dead eyes. ‘I am going to include your heroic efforts to save Mr Sutton and the colours in my report, Corporal Curry,’ he said.

  ‘I was just doing my duty,’ Conan replied. ‘The lads of Mr Sutton’s platoon liked him – for an officer, he cared about his boys. I think it is something he learned from you, sir.’

  Ian felt a lump in his throat. He did not consider himself a humane man. He had a commission to lead men in battle, and part of doing that was to care for the men he might have to send to their deaths. Maybe it was the influence of growing up in a place in the British Empire where attitudes were dictated by the egalitarianism that existed between the sons and daughters of convicts. Secretly, he still identified himself with that class of people the aristocracy of England considered disposable in the pursuit of expanding the Empire, and naturally born to serve their interests. But he also knew there were British officers who held the same attitude towards their men as he did, such as Miles Sinclair.

  It was time for Ian to return to his tent behind the lines and compose his report. He would have to wait for the butcher’s bill before doing so, and prayed that clearing the enemy marksmen from no man’s land would save many more lives in the future. It was a terrible scale where the dead were placed on one side, hopefully outweighed by the living on the other. Ian was sure of one thing; Major Jenkins was doing everything in his power to see him killed.

  *

  Lieutenant Herbert Forbes was taken from the transport ship on a litter, placed on a wagon with other wounded, and transported to the British hospital outside Constantinople.

  He was taken by litter into a ward filled with other wounded and sick officers, and placed on a bed with clean sheets. A doctor administered a dose of opium-based medication to help ease his obvious pain. A woman hovered nearby with clean bandages, and the doctor directed her to clean the wound, reapply clean bandages, and sit by the young officer for a short time to ensure that he was settling in.

  Herbert could hear the sweet sound of women speaking to his colleagues in the ward that smelled of carbolic acid and cleanliness. When he looked up at the young woman sitting by his bed, he saw that she was pretty. He could also see that she had a curious expression on her face.

  ‘Mr Forbes, are you possibly related to a Miss Alice Forbes of London?’ the nurse asked.

  ‘I am. She is my sister,’ Herbert answered. ‘How may I ask do you know her?’

  ‘My name is Molly Williams, and I have read letters from Corporal Curry that you are his officer. I have had the pleasure and honour of meeting your sister, who was very kind to me,’ Molly said with a warm smile. ‘It was Miss Alice who spoke to Miss Nightingale to get me this job after I was . . .’ Molly cut herself short but Herbert grinned.

  ‘After you were released from prison,’ Herbert said. ‘My sister wrote to me about you, and what a fine young woman you are. I believe your brother, Owen, was sent here after he was wounded. How is he?’

  ‘He has almost fully recovered from his wound, and has the full use of his arm,’ Molly replied but her smile disappeared. ‘He has been informed that he will be returning to the regiment in the next couple of days, to rejoin my brother Edwin and Corporal Curry. Were they well when you last saw them? I have not had any correspondence for a long time from Conan . . . Corporal Curry.’

  ‘They were well, the last time I saw them. You should be proud of them. They are brave soldiers.’

  ‘I would rather have all my men home in England,’ Molly said. ‘The stories I hear from the soldiers I nurse tell me terrible tales of life on the frontlines. When we first arrived at this hospital, men were dying every day from inexcusable neglect, but Miss Nightingale has done a grand job of reducing the death toll. You will be well cared for while you are here, as I will make it my personal duty to be by your side as you recover from your wound.’

  ‘Thank you, Miss Williams,’ Herbert said, taking her hand. ‘I feel better already.’

  Molly held his hand for a short while and said, ‘I will tell my brother, Owen, that you are in this ward, as I am sure he would be pleased to visit you.’

  ‘I would like that,’ Herbert said. ‘We have much to speak about.’

  Molly rose from her chair beside Herbert and excused herself to attend other wounded men. Herbert watched her
walk away, thinking how ironic that his life was in the hands of a woman once convicted of robbing his sister’s fiancé. Forgiveness was as powerful as the strength of love. In many ways, it was a kind of love.

  Herbert lay back against the clean sheets, wondering how long it would take him to recover from his wound. He needed to return to the regiment and stand with his brother when they finally attacked the port of Sebastopol.

  Within the hour, Molly returned to the officer’s ward to see Owen sitting beside Herbert’s bed, and she could see that the two men were in deep conversation. Molly had seen similar scenes before in the hospital, where wounded soldiers and officers shared the terrors of the battlefield, which broke down the social barriers between them.

  A few days later, Herbert’s bed was empty and another officer took his place. Molly asked one of the nuns who had been assigned to the ward what had happened to Lieutenant Forbes, and was informed that the surgeon in charge had signed orders for him to be returned to England to recuperate. Molly was a little saddened to lose her patient, as Owen had already been shipped back to his regiment in Crimea. But she knew that Miss Alice would be overjoyed to have her little brother at home safely by the hearth. Even as she reflected on the situation, the litter bearers entered the hospital with sick and wounded soldiers from the Crimean front. All that Molly could hope for was that she would not look down on the faces of the men she held dearest in her heart. In the meantime, there were so many other men who were brothers, husbands, fathers and lovers to nurse. It never seemed to end, as the casualties continued to flow through the wards.

  Part Three

  The Redan and Beyond

  1855

  Thirty-One

  The months had passed, and the hot summer was upon the British, French and Turkish armies. Ian felt that his whole life was now war, and as he sat outside his tent, cleaning the popular Beaumont-Adams pistol he had traded his Colt for, he realised that he had been away from England for over a year.

  The months had passed monotonously in the siege, with occasional forays against the Russian defences of Sebastopol, but no ground was truly gained.

  Ian had noticed that the Russians were more determined to defend the harbour town, and his military mind considered the fact that they should have attacked the port city after the battle of Alma. A captured Russian officer confirmed his suspicions, saying that the city would have fallen, but caution by the British and French generals had lost the opportunity to end the war. Now, the enemy had been able to fortify Sebastopol and the war was at a stalemate.

  Truces had been arranged between periods of fighting, to bury the dead and carry away the wounded. On one such truce, Ian had noticed a tall, fine-looking Russian officer smoking a cigar.

  They caught each other’s eye, and the Russian strolled over to Ian.

  ‘A good day to you, sir,’ he said in English. ‘Would you like a cigar?’

  Ian accepted the offer, and the Russian lit his cigar. Both men stood together observing the truce as if they had been serving soldiers in the same army.

  ‘The weather is unpleasant, no?’ the Russian said. He was a fit young man with a handsome face and pleasant smile. Ian guessed his enemy to be about his own age, and could see from the medals he wore on his clean uniform that the man was an experienced soldier.

  ‘Bloody hot again,’ Ian said, puffing on the cigar. ‘When are you going to give up the port?’

  The Russian laughed at Ian’s question.

  ‘You will have to come and take it from us,’ he replied.

  ‘I guess we will,’ Ian said. ‘How is the food where you are?’

  ‘Good, we have French champagne captured from your allies,’ the Russian officer replied, and Ian felt that under different circumstances, he could be friends with this young officer.

  ‘Captain Samuel Forbes,’ Ian said, extending his hand which the Russian officer accepted with a firm grip.

  ‘Count Nikolai Kasatkin,’ the Russian responded.

  ‘Well, it seems the time for our truce is almost over so I will thank you for the cigar, and brief but interesting conversation.’

  The Russian saluted Ian, who returned the salute.

  ‘Maybe we will meet under better times, and you can share our French champagne,’ he said before strolling away, as both armies cleared the killing ground red with blood, human parts and the debris of war.

  Ian remembered the meeting, and wondered if the young Russian officer was still alive, after the ferocious bombardments by the allied artillery.

  Conditions had improved in the British lines, as fresh food and other essentials were being brought up by the newly constructed railway to the men in the frontlines. Ian had been pleased at his colonel’s order that he was not to accept any orders from brigade unless he was first consulted. This meant that Major Jenkins was rarely seen in the regimental lines.

  ‘You have some mail, sir,’ the company clerk said.

  Ian accepted the letter, recognising Herbert’s handwriting. He opened the letter, and read Herbert’s complaints of lying around in London with nothing of any importance to do. Herbert wrote that his wound had healed, but left him with a slight limp. More importantly, he could not bear another day of his sister fussing around him, introducing him to the eligible young ladies at balls and afternoon picnics in the park, when he would prefer being back with the regiment. He also addressed Ian’s question in a letter he had posted concerning the whereabouts of Jane. Herbert had replied that while at their country estate, he had asked questions of the locals in the nearby village who had said she had disappeared almost overnight many months earlier. None knew of why or where she had travelled. Herbert said he was sorry that he could not be of more help, and the only answer he received was that Charles had said that he had heard a rumour that she had gone to London. Herbert also wrote that his clearance to rejoin the regiment had been approved, and he was counting the days until he could take a transport ship with reinforcements to the Crimea. He concluded his letter saying that he hoped Ian had left some Muscovites alive for him to kill.

  Ian frowned, folded the letter and gazed out at the tents of his company. Had Herbert already forgotten the horrors of the campaign? He knew his eagerness to return must be because the young man missed his other family – the regiment. There would be many Russians left to fight, and it seemed that the army would have to face another bitterly cold winter in the trenches. In the meantime, the summer was proving to be just as uncomfortable, as myriad flies infested every nook and cranny within the lines. All the British soldiers could do was traverse the miles of trenches, rifle pits and artillery gun emplacements, to gaze out on the same plan of trenches, rifle pits and gun emplacements of the enemy facing them.

  Ian pulled out his pipe, and had hardly lit it when he was joined by Dr Peter Campbell.

  ‘Hello, old chap,’ Peter said, pulling up an empty wooden crate to sit on. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  Ian was pleased to share his boredom with his friend. ‘I suppose your work has not been as busy as the past few weeks,’ Ian said.

  ‘One would think so, but our medical staff has been given orders to evacuate all our wounded and sick back to Balaclava. I think something is afoot.’

  Ian immediately latched onto this little bit of intelligence. To issue such an order could only mean that something big was going to happen. He had hardly puffed on his pipe when the orderly room clerk hurried to him, stopped, saluted and breathlessly said, ‘Sir, begging your pardon but the colonel wishes to speak with all his officers within the hour.’

  ‘Thank you, soldier. I will be at the meeting.’ The clerk saluted once again, and hurried back to the company HQ tent. Ian rose to his feet.

  ‘It certainly appears that something big is in the offing,’ he said.

  ‘Good luck, old chap,’ Peter replied. ‘Just make sure you keep your head down.’

  Ian s
trapped on his sword belt, tucked his newly acquired pistol in his sash, and scooped up his Enfield rifle. Maybe the waiting was finally over, but Ian felt that same old knot in his stomach. If so, it would mean the death, and mutilation of many of his men if they were about to assault the massive fortifications of the Russian-held seaport.

  Later that evening, after Ian returned from the briefing by the colonel, he summoned his officers and issued orders for all men to be under arms and ready for an imminent assault on the Russian port town.

  That night, Ian made his way along the regimental lines, speaking with his men, and attempting a joke or two to raise their spirits. Ian stopped at the small fire where the two Williams brothers sat with Conan, smoking their pipes. ‘This is it, sir,’ Conan said. ‘About bloody time we got this war over.’

  ‘You men should try to get some sleep,’ Ian said, squatting by the three battle-hardened veterans, and accepting a mug of hot tea Conan passed him. ‘Good to see you back with us, Owen,’ he added. ‘Try not to get yourself sent back to the hospital this time.’

  In the distance, Ian could hear the others of the company talking quietly, knowing that this might be the last time they would do so. Horses snorted and stamped their hooves while the eternal stars glittered above, oblivious to the activities of mere mortals.

  In the early morning before dawn, and without the sound of drums and trumpets, the formations of cavalry, and infantry began their advance. Ian marched ahead of his company as was his practice, with his rifle slung over his shoulder. As dawn came to the Crimea the massed regiments and squadrons were in formation for the final assault.

  They stood waiting, locked in private thoughts and fears, when the order came to withdraw back to the lines.