The Queen's Colonial

by Peter Watt

  Confused and frustrated, Ian looked over to the company on his left, where he saw his friend, Captain Sinclair shrug his shoulders. Ian detached himself from his company as they wheeled about to return to their tents.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’ he asked Miles.

  ‘No one is sure, but I heard a rumour that General Simpson felt indisposed, and sought relief on one of the ships at Balaclava. He may consider this a rehearsal for the real thing.’

  Disgusted, Ian shook his head, and hurried to catch up with his company. It was late summer, and autumn would arrive soon enough. The way things were going, they would have to suffer another winter of siege warfare.

  *

  It was just another day on the lines when Ian looked up from the reports he was perusing, compiled by his faithful and very competent clerk in his tent, when he saw Herbert limping towards him. Ian immediately rose from his chair to greet the young man.

  ‘Sam!’ Herbert exclaimed in his joy. ‘Brother, it is so good to see you again.’

  Ian took the extended hand of the young officer with a bear-like grip. ‘I was informed that you would be joining us again by the adjutant yesterday. Welcome home to hell. How is Alice?’

  Herbert sat down on an empty ammunition case in Ian’s tent to relieve the pain in his hip. The wound had healed, but left a residue of discomfort. ‘Alice sends her best wishes, and the family appears to be profiting well out of the war contracts. Charles has never been happier than poring over the ledgers to see our money piling up.’

  ‘Maybe the family can afford to purchase me a majority, and you a captaincy,’ Ian said. ‘But not until there is a vacancy in the regiment, as I doubt I would want to serve in any other.’

  ‘I feel the same,’ Herbert said. ‘The bonds are forged in blood. Do I get my own men back?’

  ‘You do,’ Ian said. ‘Colour Sergeant Leslie and Mr Sutton did a fine job of looking after your men for your holiday at home. But don’t expect to see all the familiar faces as we now have a lot of reinforcements from England.’

  ‘It was no holiday with Alice insisting that she care for me. She would order piles of food to fatten me, because she felt that I was too thin. Had I stayed a day longer, I think I would have been forced to order new uniforms to fit my bulk. She means well, and I know how much she misses Peter. All day, she would ask me how he is faring. Do I still have Corporal Curry and the Williams brothers? I saw Owen when I was sent to our hospital. He said he was being returned to the regiment.’

  ‘You do,’ Ian replied. ‘They are amongst the few seasoned soldiers we have in the company, but I am pleased to say there are others who have weathered winter, and now this infernal summer.’

  ‘Well, I think it is time to meet the new men under my command and greet the old ones,’ Herbert said, rising stiffly from the improvised seat. ‘It is good to be back.’

  Herbert departed, and Ian made a note to catch up with him that evening. He would send word to Peter that they share a bottle of good rum Ian had stashed away. Ian turned to his desk when his clerk burst in.

  ‘Sir, some news,’ he said. ‘The Muscovites have overrun the Froggies at some place called Tchernaya. There is to be a briefing now, at the colonel’s tent.’

  Ian was surprised by the news. It was the Russians initiating the battle, and this did not bode well.

  *

  From the top of a ridge Ian watched in frustration as the French and Sardinian troops took the brunt of the massive Russian attack across the river. From the heights overlooking the Russian advance, Ian could see the rolling clouds of gun smoke and thicker, billowing smoke of the artillery pieces firing grape shot and high explosive, cutting swathes out of the Russian ranks. As he and his regiment watched, the French were able to first halt the attack, and then push it back. A few enemy units were able to scramble up the heights, but were driven back by the fierce resistance of the French infantry. A couple of Italian battalions of Piedmontese and Bersaglieri counterattacked as if on a parade ground, driving off any Russian riflemen still firing across the river. It was the Allied artillery that had won the day, but Sebastopol still stood defiant, and would have to be taken with rifle and bayonet before this war could end.

  *

  Alice knew that the invitation had been delivered for Lord Montery’s garden party, and it was not an occasion to miss, as members of the royal family were also invited. Alice asked the servants where she might find the much-desired invitation and was informed that it had been delivered to Charles’ office. Alice very rarely entered her brother’s office in the London house, but decided he would not mind if she was looking for the invitation.

  Alice entered the room and looked first to the pile of correspondence on his desk. She flipped through the letters but did not find it. Possibly her brother had seen it and, absent-minded in his heavy workload, had placed it in a drawer. She opened a drawer in his desk, and saw a pile of correspondence. Alice retrieved the letters, and flipped through them. She could not find the invitation, but her attention was drawn to a letter obviously posted from Crimea. Her curiosity piqued she withdrew the letter, and noted that it had been sent by a Major Jenkins. Alice read the letter and was shocked and confused. Alice could not believe her eyes, as her hands trembled while she reread the damning letter and its vague reference to disposing of both her brothers, Herbert and Samuel, for a hefty fee. So engrossed was she that she did not notice Charles enter the room behind her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Charles asked in a cold voice.

  Alice’s heart skipped a beat as she swung around to confront her brother.

  ‘This letter from a Major Jenkins appears to be an offer to eliminate the problem of Samuel and Herbert,’ Alice said in a shaky voice. ‘What is your answer to that, Charles?’

  Charles frowned, taking a step towards her. Alice shrank away. ‘It is not what it seems,’ he lied. ‘I asked my friend, Major Jenkins, to eliminate the problem of having Samuel and Herbert being exposed on the frontlines, and to have them transferred to Lord Raglan’s staff, where they would be safer,’ he continued lying and now regretting that he had not destroyed the incriminating letter. ‘If you don’t mind, I would like my personal correspondence back,’ he said, extending his hand.

  Alice hesitated but gave him the letter, not convinced that her brother was telling her the truth. She knew how Charles despised Samuel, but wondered why he would include Herbert’s name. She had always known that Charles was a man born without any empathy for others, including his own family, had always suspected that Charles would like to see any threats to his total control of the inheritance disappear. The word ‘eliminate’ had a sinister meaning to her. As if reading her doubts Charles added, ‘I ask you, how could a serving staff officer cause the deaths of Samuel and Herbert?’

  Alice thought upon her brother’s question, and could not see any answer. Her knowledge of military matters was restricted to what she read in The Times.

  ‘I suppose you are right,’ Alice said carefully. ‘Major Jenkins might have chosen a better word to describe how he could help keep Herbert and Samuel safe from the horrors I have read about on the frontlines.’

  ‘I can assure you, dear sister, that the welfare of our brothers is my main concern. I pray that they will return to us whole and hearty very soon.’

  Alice did not reply but brushed past him, the invitation forgotten. She was not convinced that her brother had told her the truth.

  Thirty-Two

  It was in early autumn when the gates of hell opened.

  Ian wondered how such a wonderful day of mild weather could be disrupted by the constant pounding of artillery from both sides.

  From his vantage point, he could see British and French warships floating on a serene sea just outside the entrance to Sebastopol. As he gazed at the city of white buildings, three massive explosions rocked the earth from within the Russian def
ences. The French had planted their mines after tunnelling towards the city walls. The explosive mines were known as four gases, which exploded and signalled the attack. The mines had been very effective, and Ian watched as a sea of flame ran for three miles in the city with curling, white smoke marking the devastation. Ian knew that the French target had been the heavily fortified section known as the Malakoff on the left flank of the high ground, overlooking the port town.

  The bombardment was still relentless as Ian withdrew to his regimental lines. He had seen enough.

  The following day, Ian returned, but this time with a handful of infantry regiments at his back to observe the courage of the French troops assaulting the Malakoff position.

  Amidst the smoke blowing over the French trenches, the army of France rose up to rush across the short distance between the frontlines. Explosions continued in the Russian defence of Malakoff, blowing men and guns to pieces and cannon continued to blast the stunned Russians. Ian was pleased to see that they had taken the shattered earthworks, but could also see the Russian counterattack against the French infantry.

  Ian knew this was also the signal for his regiment to join the attack, focusing on another fortification known as the Redan, while the French provided a force on their right and left flanks in the attack.

  Ian glanced around to see his men crouching on one knee, faces grim with fear, rifles ready with bayonets attached. The order was given by their colonel to advance, and Ian roared out the order to his company. ‘C’mon, boys. Let’s give the Muscovites a taste of our steel!’

  They now approached the gates of hell which opened wide, inviting them in to taste death and mutilation while the continuous noise of the artillery guns roared solid shot, high explosive, canister and grape shot into both sides of no man’s land. Ian held his sword in one hand and pistol in the other. His rifle was slung over his back. The British force moved forward as one under intense fire, and the first of the Russian landmines exploded only yards from Ian, blowing two of the soldiers into bloody chunks of flesh. The landmines were buried barrels of gunpowder with an attached tin tube. Stepping on the tube caused them to explode a jet of fire into the gunpowder, resulting in the barrel exploding. They were greatly feared by the British soldiers.

  On his right, Ian could see Herbert carrying the colours, beside him Colour Sergeant Leslie with Corporal Curry and the Williams brothers surging forward, ignoring the air filled with flying metal death. Beyond the colour party flying the regimental flag, Ian saw Captain Miles Sinclair suddenly throw up his arms and fall as he led his company. It was then that Ian realised officers in the regiment were being selected by Russian sharpshooters. Ian dropped his sword, thrust his pistol in the waist sash, and snatched the rifle from his back. It made him less obvious as an officer.

  The carnage of the frontal assault was made worse when Russian artillery opened fire from their flank, enfilading the small force of British soldiers. From their front, the enemy poured in a steady and aimed fire. Ian could feel the fear but knew he must keep going, as their only option left was to overwhelm the defenders and take their positions. There was no going back, and every yard of ground felt like a mile.

  A bullet snatched at the sleeve of Ian’s uniform, but he ignored the close call. He was panting with physical exhaustion as they reached the outer edge of the Redan fortification. A deep ditch lay before the attacking British companies, and when Ian glanced around him he could see that his company was still with him, but severely reduced in numbers. The men of Ian’s company scrambled down the ditch, and up to the parapet above manned by the Russians. With rifle and bayonet, they drove off the defenders, and Ian found himself and his considerably reduced company in the narrow salient of the city walls.

  Smoke, noise and the coppery stench of blood filled the tiny area. The British were forced to advance in small groups due to the confinement of the Russian defences. Ian made a quick assessment of their situation, realising from the shouts to their front that the Russians were pushing reinforcements into the Redan in a counterattack. Men from the attacking British regiments were now a mixed force and fell fast from the enemy fire being poured into them by the counterattacking Russians. Blood splattered Ian’s face from a soldier hit by a musket ball in the neck, and he tasted the blood in his parched mouth. Through the choking smoke he saw a Russian mere yards away, kneeling to reload his musket. Ian raised his rifle and fired. The soldier toppled forward. Ian knew that they would be engaged fighting hand to hand, and drew his pistol in one hand while trailing his rifle in the other.

  For an hour, Ian and his company bit, clubbed, stabbed, fired rifles, punched, kicked and bayoneted the enemy in the close confines. The Russians did the same to the British soldiers, their reinforcements added to the confusion. The British were now outnumbered by at least four to one.

  ‘Withdraw!’ Ian roared, recognising the futility of their situation, and those nearest Ian heard the order, falling back slowly with their rifles pointed at the Russians attacking them. It was obvious to Ian that they could not hold the ground they had captured in the initial stages of the attack on the Redan fortification.

  When Ian and the survivors of his company reached the ditch, they could see the numerous piles of their dead and wounded at the bottom. The triumphant Russian infantry pressed forward and hand-to-hand fighting continued unabated.

  Ian could not see Herbert and the colour party. He continued to encourage the remainder of the company to follow him into the ditch, and up the other side, in an attempt to find safety in their own trenches. The Russians were hot on their heels, and only the covering fire from the British trenches kept the Russians at bay.

  Ian was almost at the top of the ditch when he looked back to see the tattered and blood-soaked regimental colours at the bottom beside the shattered body of Herbert. It appeared that he had been hit by a volley of grape shot that had ripped away his body, but left his face intact. Ian groaned and scrambled back down into the ditch to be beside of what was left of Herbert’s body. Herbert’s eyes were still open, and he had an expression of utter surprise in his young features. Beside him lay Corporal Curry on his back, covered in blood, and Ian felt tears streak his blackened face, running in rivulets down his cheeks.

  But Conan suddenly stirred and made a feeble effort to rise. Ian grabbed the front of Conan’s jacket, hauling him into a sitting position. ‘Are you wounded?’ he yelled above the din of continuing gunfire.

  ‘No, just winded,’ Conan slurred. ‘Where’s the Williams brothers?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ian replied, and Conan scrambled to his feet, immediately recovering the blood-soaked and shredded regimental flag. Ian helped the corporal to the edge of the ditch, and they heard a cheer rise from their trenches as what was left of the flag fluttered in the slight breeze, stirring up the dust, and swirling the smoke. Both men staggered into their lines, holding aloft the standard of their regiment.

  As soon as Ian was able to calm his nerves, he glanced around, but could not see the colonel who had led the regiment’s attack on the Redan.

  ‘Where is the colonel?’ he asked a sergeant from another company, who had passed him a flask of water.

  ‘He was wounded, sir, but we got him back to our lines to the surgeon. The regimental second-in-command has been killed,’ the sergeant said. From his uniform, Ian could see that the sergeant had not been involved in the assault on the Redan, but held in reserve with the other battalions.

  ‘We needed more men,’ Ian said bitterly. ‘They are all dead out there.’ Ian found himself staring vacantly at the opposite side of the trench wall, remembering the vicious hand-to-hand fighting in the Redan. How many Russians had he personally killed with his bayonet? Ian could not – or did not want to – remember.

  ‘Sir, Colour Sergeant Leslie is taking a roll call of the company,’ Conan’s voice drifted to him. ‘I am afraid that the butcher’s bill is high.’

 
Ian did not need to be reminded of the heavy toll that had been inflicted on his men in the futile attempt to take and hold the Redan. In the distance, he could hear constant gunfire and artillery shells exploding, guessing that the French were still fighting. Ian closed his eyes.

  ‘I see that you survived the debacle on the Redan,’ a familiar and despised voice said. Ian opened his eyes to see Major Jenkins standing over him in his spotless dress uniform.

  ‘You sound disappointed,’ Ian said.

  ‘You will address me as sir,’ Jenkins said. ‘You are an insolent chap.’

  ‘I might have thought about respecting you if I had seen you in our ranks when we went into the attack – seriously undermanned. Was that one of your great ideas . . . sir?’

  ‘Had you the heart, Captain Forbes, your men could have been persuaded to press on against our foe, and carry the day,’ Jenkins said, and this time Ian felt the red rage of killing overwhelm him. He reached for the pistol, but discovered that he had lost it on the battlefield. Jenkins saw his motion, and backed away with fear in his face.

  ‘Where is your sword?’ Jenkins asked in a frightened voice, realising that he had pushed this officer the men called ‘The Colonial’ just once too often. But Ian was too exhausted to threaten Jenkins, and he simply sat, staring past him.

  ‘I discarded the sword,’ Ian said. ‘That is why I am still possibly alive, unlike many other officers of the regiment.’

  ‘You will be reported for discarding your sword, Captain Forbes,’ Jenkins said, making ready to beat a hasty retreat. ‘It is conduct unbecoming an officer of Her Majesty to do that in front of the men.’

  ‘I don’t think they cared,’ Ian said with a bitter laugh. ‘They were more interested in just staying alive themselves. And if you expect me to stand and salute you, I would think carefully on that right now.’