Hope (57 page)

Queenie ought to have gone on the march with the other soldiers’ wives, for they were needed to do the cooking and washing for all the men, but Robbie had asked Bennett if she could stay on the ship with Hope because he was afraid she wouldn’t be able to keep up. Bennett had been only too glad to agree as he hadn’t liked the idea of his wife being left alone without a female companion.

‘Whatever’s wrong, Queenie?’ Hope grumbled as she got out of her bunk to open the door.

Queenie burst in, her face damp with tears and her eyes brimming with more. ‘There’s been a terrible battle and thousands killed,’ she burst out. ‘Do you think my Robbie’s safe?’

For a moment or two Hope was more shocked by Queenie’s tears than by the news she’d brought, for the girl was always so bright and bouncy, regardless of what was going on all around her.

‘I’m quite sure he’s safe,’ Hope said, enfolding Queenie in her arms. ‘Now, where did you get this information?’

They had heard guns a couple of days earlier, but Captain Kyle had claimed it was the Russians along at Sebastopol, and they were probably firing at a Turkish ship that had come too close.

Queenie was crying too hard to make any sense, so after Hope had dressed she went to see the Captain.

‘There has been a battle,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t know about the casualties yet. But I don’t think they can be as high as you’ve been told.’

There were several more days of terrible tension before the
Pride of the Ocean
sailed into the harbour at Balaclava, which had been designated as the British base camp. In Eupatoria, rumours had been rife. At one point it was said that the whole cavalry had been wiped out, and Lord Errol of the Rifles killed. Queenie remained tearful, pacing up and down the deck wringing her hands, and all Hope could think was how on earth would the surgeons cope if there were so many casualties.

It transpired that the cavalry had not been wiped out, and Lord Errol had only been wounded in the hand, needing a finger amputated. But there had been a battle. It was at the river Alma, some twenty-five miles from Calamita Bay, and the 1st, 2nd and Light Divisions had all been engaged. Though it was a victory in as much as the British had attacked and seized the Russians’ redoubts and defences, there were serious losses, with over two thousand British killed and wounded. And the French casualties were reported to be higher still.

The port of Balaclava was little more than a single street nestling in the cleft of two formidable steep hills. But it was a good, safe, albeit small harbour, the inlet leading to it almost concealed from passing shipping by high cliffs. Apparently, a few pot shots had been fired at the advance party of soldiers who’d arrived to take it, but there was no further resistance, and the town’s baker had come out with a roast turkey and some bread for the soldiers.

As the
Pride of the Ocean
pulled into the small harbour, easing its way between dozens of other ships, Hope was at the bows, frantically scanning the soldiers on the quayside for Bennett.

She could see dozens of green Rifle Brigade uniforms among the scarlet coats, but not him, and she was appalled to see how many walking wounded there were. Some had bandages around their heads, others were hobbling along with their breeches cut open and fearsome-looking wounds that hadn’t even been dressed.

By the time the ship had squeezed into a space on the quay, Hope had observed some stretchers being carried up to a building set back from the main street. It had the appearance of a school and would therefore make a good hospital.

She hopped from one foot to the other, waiting impatiently for the sailors to put a gangplank into place so she could run off and find Bennett.

‘Mrs Meadows!’ Captain Kyle called out, just as she was about to leave the ship. ‘It’s mayhem out there. I doubt your husband will be able to find any accommodation for you both immediately.’

Hope realized the Captain was concerned for her, and desperate as she was to find Bennett, she felt obliged to stop and speak to him.

‘I’ll find something,’ she said edging towards the gangplank.

‘You won’t, not today,’ he insisted. ‘Both you and your husband will need proper rest after dealing with so many wounded, so come back here to sleep until you can make other arrangements.’

‘That is so kind of you,’ she said gratefully. ‘I know my husband will appreciate the offer too.’ She saw Queenie running off at full tilt to find Robbie and couldn’t delay a moment longer. ‘I must go now, but I’ll be back.’

The view of the quay and little town had been picturesque from the ship. The water had sparkled in the sunshine, and the low stone buildings, the church and the steep rocky hills had implied a sleepy but secure and healthy place for a base camp.

However, once Hope and Queenie had joined the mêlée of soldiers, carts, and goods being unloaded from the ships, it took on a night marish quality. Even men who had appeared unhurt had a stunned, haunted look about them. They were dirty, their uniforms dusty and stained, and all of them were unshaven.

But if the street was frightening, the scene which met Hope’s eyes as she squeezed past stretchers to gain entrance to the hospital was terrifying.

Despite the bright sunshine outside, it was dark within, and the first thing which assaulted her was the sound of men in fearful agony, calling for help, moaning deliriously and some even screaming.

There were no beds, and the men were lying or sitting so close to one another that there was no room to get in between them. Many had only recently suffered a limb amputation and the dressings were bright with fresh blood. Others had gaping exposed wounds in their chests, legs and bellies, so frightful that Hope’s first thought was to flee, for she didn’t have even the first idea where to start.

Queenie did flee, her hand over her mouth, but Hope had spotted Bennett in the far corner of that dark and terrible place. He was kneeling to dress an amputated leg, the linen jacket he always wore over his uniform soaked in blood. Even in the dim light she could see he was grey-faced and exhausted.

All at once she was appalled that she’d lain in her bunk early this morning contemplating whether to wear her pink dress with the ruffles around the neck, or the blue one with lace to meet Bennett. She had only been concerned which dress was the more flattering, and had decided it had to be the pink one.

She was dressed as if going for a picnic with her sweetheart. She’d even put pink ribbons in her hair! But Bennett didn’t need a sweetheart now, or a silly, vain woman whose thoughts didn’t stretch beyond a night of lovemaking. What he needed was someone to help him patch up those heroes who had been torn apart by bullets, so that maybe they might live to return to their own wives and sweethearts one day.

Turning sharply, she ran back down the hill, side-stepping the stretcher-bearers and pushing through the crowds on the quay. Back in her cabin, she pulled out her old grey dress and white apron.

Within five minutes she was running back up the hill. Her hair was tied back, her petticoats were gone, the sober dress and apron replacing the frivolous pink one. And as she ran she offered up a silent prayer that some kind of instinct would take over and showher how to dress gunshot wounds, for she knew that nothing she’d ever done previously had been appropriate training for this horror.

Bennett had moved on to another soldier by the time she got back to the hospital, and he had his back to the door so he didn’t see her come in.

‘Nurse Meadows reporting for duty, sir,’ she said softly as she got closer.

He turned at her voice and smiled wanly. ‘It’s good to see you, but I don’t think you can cope with this.’

‘I can,’ she said firmly. ‘Just tell me what to do.’

It was dark when Bennett finally insisted they’d done all they could for one day. Their clothes were stiff with dried blood, backs aching from continually bending over, even their eyes were sore from peering in poor light.

All the doctors had worked like demons; there had been no breaks for meals or even drinks. Bandsmen who had been pressed into service as orderlies would bring whichever man was next in line to an area where there was some light, and there on a rough table, bullets would be removed, the wound stitched and dressed. Often amputation was required.

Hope didn’t think she’d ever forget the horror of the first leg amputation she helped with. The infantryman was no more than eighteen, with wide, childlike blue eyes full of fear. There was no chloroform to anaesthetize him, yet he’d found the courage to smile at her and kept his eyes on her, unwavering, as his limb was sawn off, never once giving way to screaming.

The sound of the saw on bone was so horrible, with so much blood, and all the time his poor young body was twitching uncontrollably in agony. All she could do was bathe his face, tell him how brave he was, and silently pray for him.

She knew that he and most of his comrades would have come from places like Lewins Mead. To men like him, joining the army was a way out of poverty, a smart uniform being better than rags. Yet sadly, they were defending a country that felt nothing for its poor and needy. If he survived the amputation, he would be shipped home to nothing. Maybe he’d get a medal, but what good was a medal when he couldn’t work? It wouldn’t buy bread or meat.

She heard that some of the wounded had lain on the battlefield among the dead all night, without receiving even a drop of water. They said they’d seen the surgeons drenched in blood cutting off limbs and tossing them to one side.

The Rifle Brigade’s casualties were light compared with other regiments. Two sergeants, one corporal and seven riflemen were killed. Twenty-five more were wounded. But Robbie had been seen by Bennett that very morning in Balaclava, and Queenie had clearly found him as she hadn’t returned to the ship.

‘Tell me what it was like at the river Alma,’ Hope asked Bennett after they had eaten and retired to their cabin.

‘The men were incredibly brave, even formidable,’ he said weakly, his face etched with weariness. ‘That’s all you need to know.’

‘I meant, what was it like for you?’

Bennett slumped back on the bunk and closed his eyes. ‘Much like you sawtoday,’ he said. ‘Except we had no table to operate on, in fact we didn’t even have a field hospital. I had to examine men on the ground with only a candle for light. There weren’t enough stretchers and during the night I could hear men calling out for help, but it was too dark to find them. We had to use peasants’ carts as ambulances. It was a shambles.’

She felt his sense of guilt that he hadn’t been able to save more men, and his anxiety that this was surely the first of many more bloody battles.

‘It won’t be like that again,’ she assured him. ‘They’ll get things right by the time of the next battle.’

He opened his eyes and looked at her sadly. ‘I doubt it, Hope. There are too many obstacles. Now we are to lay siege before Sebastopol. But as yet there are no tents, and precious little in the way of provisions or medicine. You sailed past Sebastopol this morning. It isn’t a tiny place like Balaclava, it’s big and it’s fortified, bristling with cannons and Russians who will fight to the death to keep it.

‘Furthermore, all the supplies for the army will come in here, and the only way to get them to our boys at the siege is up that steep track on to the Heights. Easy enough now while the ground is dry, providing we’ve got horses or mules. But what about when the autumn rains come? Or in winter when it’s freezing? How will they get the wounded back here?’

‘It will be over by then,’ she said hopefully.

‘I doubt that,’ he said gloomily. ‘Not when the generals can’t even agree how and when to attack.’

On the morning of 27 October, Hope woke to find Bennett had slipped out without waking her. The
Pride of the Ocean
, which had been their home, had left for Scutari two weeks earlier, taking many of the wounded to the hospital. Now, until such time as they could find better accommodation, they had a tent.

It was pitched a few hundred yards from the hospital, behind the main street, and just far enough up the hill to be away from the filth and commotion of the quayside.

The small port now had more in common with Lewins Mead than the picturesque sparkling harbour that Hope had seen when she first arrived. The hundreds of wounded men might be gone, sent back by ship to Scutari, where rumour had it they would die faster than if they were left here on the quay. But a different, less understandable squalor had taken its place. Piles of unloaded goods littered the quayside because no one knew where to take them. Some of them were foodstuffs, and after a few days of the sun burning down, or rain soaking them, they rotted. Livestock brought in on ships were slaughtered and their entrails thrown into the water. Corpses often floated back into the harbour, bobbing up to the surface because the weights tied to them weren’t heavy enough to keep them down. Along with the gallons of slops created by the now vast number of residents, and the waste from horses, mules and oxen, the stench was overpowering and the water murky.

It seemed strange to Hope, who knew so little about army campaigns, that all those tens of thousands of troops which she had seen in Varna were now here in the Crimea, somewhere, but she didn’t know where or how close to the port. The cavalry were reported to be camping up on the plain above Balaclava. She’d seen a few of their men in the town, but she hadn’t seen Captain Pettigrew. She was terribly frustrated by being unable to speak to him about Nell. Nursing filled every minute of the day, but her thoughts kept turning to her sister, and she’d have given anything to have some sort of positive picture of Nell to help her overcome the endless horror she was subjected to daily in the hospital.

She knew that thousands of men had been marched around Sebastopol to lay siege before the town. She’d seen picks and shovels being carted up the track to dig the entrenchments, just as she’d noted the incredible amount of ammunition and cannons being hauled up that way. The French army were based in a place called Kamiesch Bay, which she understood to be along the coast nearer Sebastopol. She had no idea where the Turks had camped.