by Peter Watt
Jenkins did not reply, but turned on his heel to walk away. Ian stared after him, contemplating the day he would kill the staff officer who had insulted the memory of the men whose smashed bodies lay in the ruins of the Redan and the ditch behind him. It would not be murder, in the eyes of Ian, but an execution.
Ian struggled to his feet and made his way along the trench to Colour Sergeant Leslie who, grim-faced, passed the roll book to him with the words, ‘It is not complete, sir. The CSM has the total,’ he said. ‘We are hoping that one or two of the lads might be wounded, and recovered from the field.’
Ian ran his eyes down the list, and saw another familiar name, Private Edwin Williams.
‘Are you sure that Private Edwin Williams is dead?’ he asked Leslie.
‘Saw it myself, sir,’ Colour Sergeant Leslie said sadly. ‘He was next to Mr Herbert when our party was hit by Muscovite grape shot. Not much left of him, or Mr Herbert.’
‘What about his brother, Owen?’ Ian asked, scanning the names on the list of confirmed dead.
‘Missing at this stage, sir,’ Leslie said. ‘It is still early days.’
They were joined by Conan, whose blood-soaked uniform was hardly recognisable as that of a British soldier. Like so many others, it was torn, dirty and covered in blood. ‘I’ve been searching for Owen,’ Conan said. ‘But no one can remember seeing him after the fight.’
‘I am sorry, Corporal,’ Ian said.
‘I recruited him myself,’ Leslie said. ‘He was a fine soldier.’
The men fell into a silence, each locked in the screams in their head as the French fought on to overcome the Russians in the town of Sebastopol.
*
The room stank of the coppery smell of blood as the wounded were brought into the factory-like surgery, the doctors waiting with saws and sutures.
Peter Campbell was exhausted. There had been so many and no sign of the supply of patients diminishing. Terrible wounds inflicted by the lead musket balls that shattered bone on impact. Missing limbs from the impact of the canister and grape shot of the enemy artillery guns. Deep bayonet wounds in the stomachs and chests of soldiers. There was no shortage of battle wounds to deal with.
Peter swabbed his forehead with the back of his bloody hand as the sweat rolled down, stinging his eyes. He felt the amputated arm at his feet and called to an orderly to remove it, lest he trip on it.
Another soldier was placed on his table by two litter bearers. Peter looked down on him through weary eyes, and felt his heart skip a beat. He recognised the shattered face of Private Owen Williams. Owen was semi-conscious and moaning in his distress. Peter quickly diagnosed the wound, and guessed it had been a musket ball that had smashed one side of his face. Skilfully, Peter probed to ensure that the ball was not inside the wound, and Owen hardly noticed the painful examination in his agonised condition. No ball was found, but Peter could feel the fractured cheekbone. Thank God it was not a life-threatening wound, he thought, and reached for the needle and stitches to sew the jagged edges together. There was no time to apply chloroform, and Peter worked quickly to minimise the pain the sewing caused. When he was finished, he turned to an orderly. ‘This man is to be shipped to Constantinople for recovery treatment. Take him away.’
No sooner had Owen been lifted off the surgery table than another soldier was placed on the surface slippery with blood. Peter quickly examined the soldier whose leg had been shattered above the knee. This time, he used the chloroform on his patient, and sawed off the leg above the knee. There was no time to think about the fate of Private Owen Williams, but he would ensure the knowledge of his survival was relayed to Sam Forbes.
*
Ian sat at the table in his tent, still wearing the tattered uniform he had fought in. His hand trembled as he recovered a page of writing paper and a pen. This would be the hardest and most sorrowful letter he would ever have to write, and with a trembling hand he began.
My dear Alice,
I regret to inform you . . .
Ian paused, remembering the oath he had made to her in England; to always protect her beloved little brother. How foolish to say such a thing in a time of war. Only luck decided who lived and died.
Outside his tent, he could hear the distant gunfire of the continuing battle for Sebastopol.
Tears dropped on the letter, and Ian used a sheet of blotting paper to dry them away. He continued writing, forcing his trembling hand to be still.
. . . that on this day our beloved Herbert was killed bravely fighting in the battle for Sebastopol . . .
At this moment in time, Ian knew why Samuel Forbes had hated war so passionately, as Ian did now. But he also knew soldiering was like some terrible addiction. He knew how those who used the opium flower could not rid themselves of the desire to destroy their lives with it. War was Ian’s opiate, and he knew that it was destroying his soul.
Thirty-Three
It was the French army that finally overcame Russian resistance, and Sebastopol fell at a bloody cost to both sides. The returning French soldiers were cheered, and saluted by the British soldiers as they passed, and Waterloo was forgotten between the two traditional enemies.
Ian received a despatch from the colonel in a British hospital behind the lines that he was to assume temporary command of the regiment as one of the few senior officers left alive. Ian stared at the paper naming him as the temporary regimental commander. He knew that he had very few men left alive to command, and looked to the bloody, tattered flag that so many had died for.
‘Sir, what are your orders?’ His own company sergeant major was now acting regimental sergeant major, in lieu of the senior regimental NCO now dead on the battlefield.
‘Pass the word for the regiment to assemble, sarn’t major,’ Ian said in a weary voice. ‘I will address them.’
The weary, battle-fatigued men of the regiment fell in, and Ian stood before them.
‘I have been commanded to assume command until our colonel is well enough to resume his duties,’ Ian said. ‘I just want to tell each and every one of you that you have upheld the finest traditions of the British army, and it is an honour to be your commander. We have all lost comrades at the Redan, and their sacrifice was not in vain, although many of you may think we were defeated. Sebastopol has fallen, and the Muscovites are in retreat. We, the Allies, have won a victory.’
Ian scanned the faces of the men standing in ranks, and saw the haunted look of soldiers who had seen too much. He knew that he could not continue with any further words to inspire men who just fought to stay alive.
‘Sar’nt major. Fall out the parade,’ Ian said.
The men were dismissed to their duties, and Ian returned to his tent, where he had arranged to purchase another revolver from one of the many merchants who followed the army. The Russians might have given up Sebastopol, but the war was far from over.
Not that far away, the smoke rose over a town burning from end to end, marking the bloody victory.
*
The Times correspondent went down to the city to witness, and report on what a victory looked like. He stopped off at a hospital that had been shelled. He entered through a door into a low room supported by square pillars. The windows were shattered, and the ward packed with decomposing corpses, alongside the severely wounded and freshly dead. Some were on trestles, others on the floor in pools of congealed blood. Russell could see a wounded Russian soldier under a bed, glaring at him and the British journalist quickly moved on through the rows of wounded, bones protruding where their limbs had been subjected to gun and artillery fire. It was a pitiful sight and he could hear the cries of those still able to voice their pain calling for water, food and care. The stench was overwhelming, and when he looked into the faces of the soldiers, he saw how young they were. Russell stumbled from the horror into the sunlight. So, this is what victory looked like.
*
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Molly sat by the bedside of her brother, Owen, with tears in her eyes. His once handsome face was now disfigured by the terrible wound. ‘Edwin and Conan, do you know of their fate?’ she asked through her tears.
‘Edwin is gone,’ Owen answered, hardly able to look his sister in the eye. While being transported on the ship to the British hospital, a fellow wounded soldier recounted how he had seen him blown away by the Russian grape shot, while standing with the colour party. ‘I do not know of the Paddy’s fate.’
Molly looked around the ward filling each day with the wounded, noticing how so many were from her brother’s regiment. Always, she dreaded seeing those she loved amongst the wounded and maimed. The only consolation was that if they were brought in wounded, they were still alive and, thanks to the efforts of Miss Nightingale and her nurses, they had a better chance of remaining alive.
‘Edwin had a premonition he would not survive and gave me his share of the bounty we found,’ Owen said quietly. ‘His share is sewn into my trousers, and I want you to hold it for us.’
Molly nodded her understanding. She would retrieve the cash later that night when she was on her rounds. Molly had previously secured Owen’s share safely, sewn into a spare dress she owned. But it was time to make her rounds, knowing that her brother’s wound would not stop him returning to his regiment in the future. Molly was a spiritual person, and spent every night off-duty praying that the war would end, and she would not have to hold the hands of dying men, nor hear their cries of pain in the night, as they tossed and turned, reliving the horrors of this modern war of increased technology aimed at killing more efficiently.
*
But the war went on.
Private Owen Williams rejoined the regiment, much to the joy of Conan. Ian was pleased to hear that the Welshman was back in the ranks, and personally greeted him in the lines.
‘Sir, I have been told by the lads that you are now the regimental commander,’ Owen said as they stood outside the bell tent he and Conan shared.
‘Until the colonel is fit enough to return to the regiment,’ Ian said, observing the red raw gash along the side of his face. The wound had caused one eye to droop when it was stitched, and it would remain for life as a memento of the disastrous attack on the Redan.
‘I have heard talk from the boys that they like having you as the commander,’ Owen continued. ‘They say you are lucky, and that means a lot in this war.’
Ian thought about that. He had always been in the thick of the fighting, and yet the only substantial wound he had ever received was one he had incurred earlier in the campaign. All he had now was a jagged scar along his arm.
‘Do they still call me the colonial?’ Ian asked with a smile.
‘Er, yes, sir,’ Owen answered hesitantly. ‘They don’t mean any harm by it.’
How ironic that he should have that title from his troops. If only they knew how right they were. ‘It is good to have you back, Private Williams,’ Ian said. ‘Maybe I will be able to put my hands on a good bottle of rum for you and Corporal Curry to celebrate this occasion, and raise a toast to the memories of Mr Forbes and Edwin.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Owen said. ‘That would be good.’
Ian walked away to return to his duties as the regiment’s commanding officer. Secretly, he relished his new title, and with the fading sound of drums and trumpets, was beginning to accept that his boyhood dreams in New South Wales were being realised. The regiment was his family, and he was their father.
Then the war was over.
The Tsar of Russia sued for peace in Paris, and the politicians left their sumptuous lunches to sign the Treaty of Paris in March 1856 in their best clothes that had never been soiled by the blood of their armies.
And Ian’s regiment went home.
*
Parades and dinners greeted the regiment when it returned to the streets of London.
Dr Peter Campbell and Captain Samuel Forbes once again took up residence in the Reform Club. Ian did not attempt to seek out Alice, as he still carried the crushing guilt of breaking his impossible promise of ensuring her beloved young brother survived the war. His first priority was to find Jane, and to aid him, he had in his possession what he guessed was a small fortune in precious stones and gold. But first, he would need to find a way of selling his war booty without the government learning of his possession of the generous fortune. He knew that they would insist that he turn over the jewels and gold to the British coffers and be distributed indirectly to the British aristocrats. The first names that came to mind when it came to contacts with the shady figures of London’s less scrupulous businessmen were those of Corporal Conan Curry and Private Owen Williams. They had, after all, a background in criminal proceedings in the great city, and the possible contacts to assist him turning the gold, and precious stones into cash.
Ian changed into a suit of civilian dress, and made his way to a hotel he knew was popular with the soldiers from the London barracks. He had heard Conan mention the place as where Colour Sergeant Leslie had recruited him and the Williams brothers.
The day was bleak and cold for spring in London, and rain fell as a drizzle. Ian found the hotel, stepping inside the room thick with tobacco smoke and the sweat of closely packed bodies. It was not hard to find Conan, Owen and a pretty young woman sitting at a table in the corner. Both men were wearing their dress uniforms, and on their uniform jackets each had the two medals issued for the campaign. One was British and had the clasps of the major battles on the riband, whilst the other, a medal issued by a grateful Ottoman Empire to the Allied nations who had defeated the Russian Tsar. In front of the small party were many tankards of ale, and Ian guessed that they were gifts from a few grateful citizens.
Conan rose unsteadily when he saw Ian approach.
‘Resume your seat, Conan,’ Ian said, pulling up a stool. ‘We are not on duty, and I felt a need to join you both for a drink.’
‘It is an honour to have you join us, sir,’ Owen slurred, half lifting his tankard from the beer-wettened table. ‘This is my sister, Molly,’ he said, turning his head to her. ‘She is a bit keen on the bloody Irishman.’
Molly smiled when Ian caught her eye, and nodded her head in acknowledgement of his presence. Ian returned the smile and could see that she was the only one of them who was sober.
‘Molly, fetch Captain Forbes an ale,’ Owen said, and she stepped away.
‘There is another reason why I sought you two out,’ Ian said, leaning towards the two inebriated soldiers. ‘I would be grateful for advice on how to go about selling a few trinkets of jewellery I acquired in the Crimea.’
‘Ah, I can see why you might want to be discreet,’ Conan said, immediately understanding why an officer might need their talents. ‘Would the said jewellery perhaps have fallen into your hands when we sacked that Muscovite baggage train?’
‘Something like that,’ Ian grudgingly admitted, but had come to trust these two men, who had on more than one occasion put themselves in dire peril to keep him alive.
Molly was standing behind Ian with an ale. ‘Ikey the Jew would know what to do,’ she said, placing the tankard in front of Ian. ‘I saw him yesterday in Mayfair. He has returned to London.’
‘Ikey the Jew,’ Ian echoed. ‘Is he a dealer in precious stones and gold?’
The three laughed, and Owen leaned forward as Molly resumed her seat. ‘Ikey Solomon deals in everything in these parts, and not a man to be trifled with. But he has a reputation for fairness, and would not do you wrong. Molly used to look after his books, and he is a bit sweet on her.’
‘I should consider you on a percentage then, Miss Williams, if you can arrange for me to deal with your former employer,’ Ian said.
‘No, sir. Conan and Owen have told me what a fine officer and gentleman you are. I would not even think of taking your money.’
‘Mayb
e not a gentleman, if you really knew Captain Forbes,’ Conan said with a wink, which Ian ignored.
‘Do you think I could meet with this Ikey the Jew tomorrow?’ Ian asked Molly, and she said she would try to ensure this could happen after the matter was discussed. Ian then joined the three in a round of toasts to the regiment and the men who had not come home.
That evening, a note was delivered to the club for Ian, and it set out the meeting place and time. Ian read the note before going to join his old friend, Dr Campbell in the dining room. As much as he trusted the fellow colonial, Ian had not told him about the property he had obtained from the fleeing Russians.
The following morning, the rain had cleared, and fluffy white clouds above vied with the odious smog below. Conan and Owen, wearing civilian clothing, and Molly, in a new dress, fell in with Ian wearing his civilian suit, walking the short distance from the Reform Club to the place Molly said her contact had his office. Ian did not know what to expect, but was surprised to see the second-level office in the merchant house was clean and professional. They were greeted at the door by a scarred, heavy-built man who Molly spoke to.
He popped his head around a doorway, and the man they had come to meet called them in.
Ian and his companions stepped into the office, where they saw another heavy-built man sitting behind a desk. Beside him stood a younger man who bore a resemblance to Ikey. He wore spectacles and was clean-shaven. Ian locked eyes with Ikey and could see an intelligence behind the rugged face. He had a long black beard and rose to extend his hand to Ian.
‘Captain Forbes, I presume,’ he said with a firm handshake. ‘Molly has already briefed me about you and some business dealings we may have between us. Please, all take a seat.’ Molly, Conan and Owen pulled up chairs before the impressive man’s desk. Ian touched the small revolver concealed in his jacket as a precaution and then withdrew the leather pouch containing the jewels and opened it, spilling his cache on the desk. Ian immediately saw the surprised reaction from Ikey at the sight of the small fortune on his desk. The young man standing beside him raised his eyebrows in surprise.