The Scarlet Thief (15 page)

The colonel scanned the paper quickly, his brow furrowing. His eyes darted across the few short lines before he looked up, his leathery face creasing into a smile.

‘This is it, boys!’ he shouted, standing in his stirrups to call down the length of the battalion. ‘The Russians are ahead!’

The Russian bear had stirred. The road to Sevastopol was blocked.

‘Water!’

No other single word could have created more disruption to the order and discipline of a British army battalion. The fusilier had spied the small stream twisting its way along the shallow valley ahead and joyfully announced its presence to the rest of the regiment. The fusiliers had trudged over the low rise footsore, dehydrated and close to collapse. Yet the single word transformed them. Without a word of command the column stopped, the men quivering with eagerness, like hounds smelling the fox for the first time.

Colonel Morris beamed with pride as the men held their ranks despite their desperate desire to drink. Every head turned to stare at the colonel, the same look of longing on all their faces.

Morris could not deny them. ‘Go, my boys! You have earned it.’

Released, the redcoats streamed forward, the men pulling and elbowing each other in their desperate haste to reach the small stream. Men who minutes earlier had felt ready to lie down and die found the strength to race forward down the shallow slope towards the Bulganak River. They threw themselves into the shallow stream, thrusting their heads into the ice-cold water or cupping their hands and gulping it down their parched throats as fast as they could. And the officers joined them. Colonel Morris alone held back, walking his horse behind the rearmost and slowest moving fusiliers. Only when the drenched fusiliers returned to the north bank of the river, their heavy uniforms soaking but their thirst satiated and their canteens full, did he allow his horse to bow its head so it, too, could drink.

‘Would you be so kind, Sloames?’

Jack stood in the centre of the stream, the slow-moving water rippling around his boots. His stomach ached with the cold water he had gulped down. He looked up to see Morris holding out his canteen.

Without a word, Jack reached out, took the canteen and squatted down, removing the stopper as he did so. It was only when he handed the full container back did he see the strain on Morris’s face.

‘Obliged to you.’ Morris tipped back his head and took a long draught from the canteen, closing his eyes at the exquisite pleasure of the fresh water cascading down his throat. It took several seconds before he lowered the canteen, leaving a few errant drops of water captured in the wiry grey hairs of his beard.

Morris replaced the stopper. ‘Mr Sloames, form your company, if you please. We have work to do.’

A troop of the 13th Light Dragoons splashed noisily through the river. The horses’ hooves flung the water high into the air so that the bright sunlight flashed off thousands of droplets. More dragoons were riding down the shallow slope towards the river. The cavalrymen looked down in disdain at the soaked fusiliers as they rode past, their sneers and shouted insults leaving the redcoats wondering who the true enemy was. Jack looked to the south, the direction the cavalry was taking. There, half a mile distant, Russian cossacks lined the brow of the hill.

A chill ran down Jack’s spine. Muttering imprecations, he went to form up his company.

‘Jesus Christ! If they could bleeding shoot straight they’d be fucking dangerous.’

‘Silence in the ranks!’ Sergeant Baker snarled from his place behind the company, his eyes scanning the men as he tried to identify the culprit. The redcoats stood stoically in their ranks, as the sun beat down. The sweat poured freely down their bodies and faces but at least they had a grandstand view of the afternoon’s entertainment.

The battalion was deployed in a line two ranks deep, spread like a long red chain on the brow of the shallow slope to the south of the Bulganak River. It had not taken the 13th Light Dragoons long to drive off the few cossacks who had been observing the movements of the army and the fusiliers had been ordered forward to take up position on the crest of the slope the cossacks had vacated. To their front, Lord Cardigan had led the light cavalry forward in skirmish order and for the last twenty minutes they had been engaged in a vigorous but so far ineffectual exchange of gunfire with a large body of Russian cavalry. Neither side appeared capable of hitting their targets. From their vantage point on the low crest, the fusiliers watched in disappointment as the brisk exchange of fire failed to inflict a single casualty on either side.

‘It reminds me very much of a review day at Chobham.’ Captain McCulloch had wandered over to join the Light Company, making his observation as he approached where Jack stood observing the afternoon’s display. McCulloch’s 2nd Company was formed on the Light Company’s right flank. The Light Company itself was the furthest left of the whole battalion, with Captain Brewer and his grenadiers at the opposite end on the battalion’s right flank.

This was the first time the two officers had spoken since the night of Jack’s abuse of Major Peacock.

‘I wouldn’t know as I never had the pleasure, although I hear review days are about as interesting as listening to Brewer fart. At least our damn cavalry are not spoiling the spectacle by actually hitting something.’

McCulloch winced at the colourful language. ‘So you have not yet learnt to moderate your language, Sloames.’

‘No, I’m afraid I haven’t, nor do I think I ever shall.’ He turned to face McCulloch. ‘But I have learnt to appreciate when I’m being a complete fool. I can only apologise for my appalling behaviour. It was unacceptable and I truly regret that it ever happened.’

McCulloch met Jack’s intense gaze. A moment’s scrutiny was all it took for him to believe Jack was telling the truth. ‘Let us hear no more about it then. Let bygones be bygones and all that.’ McCulloch lifted his shako by its peak and wiped his hand across his sweat-streaked forehead. He slicked his damp hair down with a grimace of distaste.

‘Thank you.’ Jack offered McCulloch his hand.

‘There’s no need for that, old fellow,’ said McCulloch, shaking Jack’s hand anyhow. ‘We all have our off days.’

Jack and McCulloch stood in companionable silence watching the British cavalry engage their Russian counterparts in a wasteful and ineffective duel of musketry. The sight of a single Russian trooper silently crumpling over and falling to the ground raised such a cheer from the watching British troops that the cavalrymen of both sides turned to look at the source of the huge hurrah.

The sporadic gunfire soon resumed and proved as wasteful as before. The mute participation of the British infantryman became languid and sleepy.

General Raglan steadfastly refused to allow the infantry to join the attack. He was anxious to avoid a general action until his army was consolidated and so he held his men back, refusing to be drawn into a precipitate advance. There was nothing for the infantry to do other than to roast in the sun and endure the heat, the flies, the boredom and the thirst. The foolishness of the inactivity was not lost on the battalion’s officers as a steady trickle of men collapsed from heatstroke, victims to their general’s feckless caution.

‘Aha! This looks more like it. Action at last,’ McCulloch said happily, announcing a change in the tiresome skirmish.

Jack had been engaged in a battle of his own as he fought to keep his heavy eyelids from closing. The effects of the long march and the cavalry’s ineptitude had combined to leave him struggling to stay awake. It was with some difficulty that he lifted his gritty and sore eyes to see what had caught McCulloch’s attention.

A squadron of Russian cavalry spurred towards the British dragoons’ left flank, the first purposeful movement either side had managed for the last half hour.

With a precision that put the languid movements of the British cavalrymen to shame, the Russian cavalry opened in the centre, the separate halves of the squadron peeling back left and right, revealing the battery of guns they had so skilfully been screening.

‘Oh, well done. Well done indeed!’ McCulloch could not resist praising the beautifully executed manoeuvre.

The Russian artillery opened fire as the last of their cavalry spurred their way clear, the puffs of smoke from the mouths of their cannon clearly visible moments before the noise of the cannonade could be heard.

‘There! We are privileged indeed, Sloames. We have witnessed the first cannon of the campaign being fired.’ McCulloch pulled hard on the hem of his jacket and picked a small bit of lint from his lapel as he spoke, as if to be present at such a historic moment made him uncomfortable.

‘Let us hope our cavalry is pleased. I’m not sure I’d be so keen to see the first cannon shot of the campaign if I was on the receiving end of it as they are.’

McCulloch chose to ignore Jack’s somewhat caustic observation. ‘I had better get back to my company. I’m glad we had the opportunity to talk.’

‘Enjoy the day, Mr McCulloch, and don’t forget,
aut vincere aut mori
.’ Jack mangled the Latin phrase he had heard for the first time on the night of his confrontation with Major Peacock.

His sarcasm brought a wry smile of acknowledgement from McCulloch. ‘Mr Sloames, you are incorrigible. God willing I shall see you later and we can work on your pronunciation. You sounded like a constipated clergyman.’ McCulloch nodded his farewell and left Jack to enjoy the display the cavalrymen were putting on.

A battery of British horse artillery careered to a noisy halt a short distance to the left of Jack’s company, stung into action by the skill of the Russian horse artillery.

The suddenness of their arrival stirred many of the Light Company from their sun-induced stupor. The gunners prepared their weapons to fire to the clipped orders of their sergeants. The sight was of much greater interest than the shambolic performance of the skirmishing cavalry.

The Russian artillery fired a second volley before the British gunners were ready to reply. From their elevated viewpoint, the Light Company could trace the pencil-thin track the roundshot left as they flew through the air towards the dispersed ranks of the cavalry. In the widely spaced skirmish order, the dragoons and hussars offered a poor target for the Russian gunners and the heavy barrage struck down only a single dragoon.

An ear-ringing explosion of noise and smoke to the Light Company’s left announced that the British battery was returning fire. Far to the battalion’s right a second British battery opened up, the deep cough of these guns identifying them as bigger bored nine-pounders.

Despite the cloud of foul-smelling powder smoke that partially blocked the fusiliers’ view, it was clear the British were directing their fire with greater effect than their Russian counterparts. Several Russian cavalrymen and horses were struck by the first British volley. The Russian gunners bravely fired again, resolutely sticking to their task despite the storm of roundshot that crashed about their ears. It was a courageous display but one that only served to goad the British gunners to greater energy. With another explosion of noise and smoke, the British guns fired again.

When the smoke cleared, the fusiliers could see that the Russian gunners had seen sense. With a haste born of fear, they hurried to limber their guns before the British fired on them once more.

The British gunners would not let the Russian gunners skulk away unmolested. The artillerymen were serving their guns with intensity and rivers of sweat streamed down their powder-stained faces as they raced to reload. Within moments, another British volley crashed out, and then another, maiming and killing indiscriminately.

The fusiliers watched in subdued silence as the British artillery exacted a dreadful toll on the retreating enemy gunners. Soon they witnessed the devastating power of artillery close up as the few British casualties were brought back towards the rear. One young hussar trooper had been draped unconscious across his saddle. His body jerked like a rag doll, a bleeding, tattered stump all that remained of one of his legs. The gory sight of the man’s ripped limb, the bone and flesh mangled into something unrecognisable as being human, turned many a stomach among the watching men.

This time the fusiliers had been able to stand on the sidelines and watch as other young soldiers experienced the raw horror of war. A few miles to the south the main body of the Russian army waited. Tomorrow the King’s Royal Fusiliers would have to take their place in the battle line and face the stark reality of battle for themselves.

The battalion spent the night on the same ground they had occupied through the long, dull afternoon. The fusiliers were grateful to be bivouacked close to the River Bulganak. This gave them easy access to fresh water, even if the thin stream had been churned to a muddy soup by the incessant passage of men and horses, and the thick ferns and lavender bushes that grew on its banks provided fuel for their fires. By some miracle, the army had delivered fresh rations, including the blessed casks that would supply them with their treasured ration of rum. Only the columns of smoke on the horizon gave a reminder of what they would face the following day. The Russian army had torched the closest villages, denying any sanctuary to the invading armies.

Four rivers blocked the allies’ route to Sevastopol. The first, the Bulganak, was now behind them. That left the Alma, the Kacha and the Belbek. Already rumours were spreading through the army. It was said that fifty thousand Russian infantrymen waited on the formidable heights that bordered the River Alma, supported by a huge number of cavalry and cannon. Their position was strengthened by fearsome fortifications constructed in the time gifted to the Russian defenders by the British army’s lethargic preparations and delayed advance. The Russian general, His Serenity Prince Alexander Sergeevich Menshikov, was reputed to have boasted that he could hold the position for weeks, even in the face of the most determined assault. The Alma would run red with the blood of the hated invaders.

Jack closed his eyes in pleasure as he relished the flavour of the scalding hot tea, a welcome contrast to the tartness of the green coffee he was usually forced to drink.

His body ached and he craved the oblivion of sleep but first he would check on his men. He threw the dregs of his tea on to the dusty ground and forced himself to his feet.

The men of the Light Company lay sprawled around their hastily constructed fires. They were now adept at making the best of wherever they found themselves. Jack had released his two subalterns, giving them leave to visit their friends in the other companies. It left him alone and for once he did not feel his usual jealousy of the companionship they shared with their mates. He was content to spend the time with his company. Tonight, it was where he belonged.

Jack felt a fierce affection for the men. The redcoats enjoyed little in the way of comfort, earned a pittance and endured terrible hardships and ferocious discipline. Yet they faced it all with a stoicism that was scarcely credible. With their mates at their side they would go into battle with the same resolute spirit that they dealt with everything else the army threw at them. Jack knew now that to lead a company of soldiers was a privilege that few deserved, him least of all. It had been a terrible presumption to think that he was worthy of the commission he had stolen. He had believed the life of an officer was easy, full of undeserved privilege and comfort. He had not seen the responsibility that the officers carried constantly. Now he understood what it meant to lead men. Yet as heavy as that burden was, he would not surrender it for anything.

‘Evening, sir.’ The greeting came from Fusilier Dodds, one of the company comedians. He was too fly for his own good which got him into far too much trouble with Sergeant Baker and meant he was still an ordinary fusilier even after fifteen years’ service. He was also one of the most popular soldiers in the company. He looked a typical rogue, his scrawny frame and gaunt face so typical of the soldiers who hailed from the rookeries of London. Like many of the fusiliers, Dodds had joined the army to get away from the dreadful conditions of the workhouse and a lifetime of grinding poverty.

‘Good evening, Dodds. Was it warm enough for you today?’

‘Warm, sir? It was fair roasting. Still, it weren’t as bad for us as it was for them Turkish fellows.’

‘And how’s that, Dodds?’ Jack asked cautiously, sensing this was exactly the question Dodds wanted him to ask.

‘Well, they’s Hottoman’s, ain’t they?’ Dodds’s face creased into a grin. His messmates groaned at the desperate pun.

‘I expect you spent all day thinking that up,’ Jack said wryly.

‘He must’ve, sir,’ Fusilier Troughton, one of Dodds’s messmates, called. ‘He was pulling such a face all day we thought he was sickening for the bleeding chokey. It must’ve been him thinking!’

The rest of the small group doubled up. The laughter was much too loud for such low jesting. The men were clinging to their humour to contain the terror that bubbled below the surface. It was the night before battle and no sane man could face the future without fear. The dread picked at their courage and gnawed at their spirits. Yet not one of the fusiliers would admit to their fears.

Jack left the men laughing, his exhausted body and throbbing back finding walking easier than standing in one place. The men at the next fire looked up as he came close, their grimy faces turning to stare at him apprehensively as he approached.

‘Good evening.’ This time Jack spoke first. The group was made up of the new recruits who had joined the company with Slater. In these early days, they found it easier to stick together. It would take time for them to fit in, to be accepted as belonging to the company. It was not something that could be forced or hurried.

Fear and anxiety was etched on the pale faces of the newcomers. Without the easy camaraderie of Dodds and his messmates, the newest additions to the company would have to face their fear quietly, hiding the terror behind the silent domestic rituals of cooking their rations and settling to rest.

The men seemed nervous at the sudden appearance of their company commander and just bobbed their heads in acknowledgement of his greeting. One of their fellow recruits had collapsed on the march, claimed by the searing heat of the sun. The company had lost three men that day, losses it could do without so close to battle. None of the victims had died but all were lost to the confusion of the army’s system of caring for the sick and wounded. No one expected to see them again. Even if they returned to health, it was more than likely they would be sent to another battalion and their entries in the company books crossed through.

Jack left the new recruits to eat their rations in peace, remembering how daunting the presence of an officer could be. Nothing he could say would allay their fear or banish the thoughts of what awaited them tomorrow. They would simply have to cope, as every man had to. Alone.

‘Hello there, sir. Have you not had your fill of walking? I know I bloody well have.’ The singsong accent of Welsh Davies welcomed Jack into the group of men gathered round the next campfire.

He walked into the circle of light, its warmth reeling him in like a trout on a lure. ‘Do you call that walking? I thought it was more like a pleasant stroll in the countryside.’

‘T’were that, Captain,’ the broad West Country baritone of English Davies rumbled from the far side of the fire. The two Davies were never far from each other, as if their common name created a natural bond between them.

‘Thank you, English.’ Jack looked round the small circle. ‘Make sure your rifles are ready for tomorrow. I have a feeling you’re going to need them.’ Jack offered the unnecessary advice more for something to say than for any more practical reason. These were his best men. They seemed to be drawn to each other, their experience and skill forming them into a special cadre at the core of the company.

‘I plan to sleep with my Minié, Captain, and I’ll caress her sweet curves all night long, so I will.’ This from Dawson, the smallest man in the company. Hoots and whistles greeted his comment.

‘Why you said the same about your old Bessie,’ Taylor, who was old enough to be Dawson’s grandfather, said in mock disapproval. He was referring to the Brown Bess musket that had only recently been replaced with the new, more powerful, Minié rifle.

‘Now don’t you go getting all excited, old man. At your age it could be the death of you.’ Dawson chuckled. ‘I do miss my old Bessie, I’ll give you that. But you can’t beat getting your hands on a younger model, now can you?’ Dawson slapped the stock of his Minié rifle.

Jack grinned at their tomfoolery, glad his fusiliers had the good spirits to chide and tease one another.

Taylor threw a lump of rock-hard biscuit in Dawson’s direction. The young fusilier caught it and took a teeth-shattering bite out of it. His grimace of pain set the men off laughing again and Jack used the moment to move on.

A slow and laconic round of applause came from the darkness on the very edge of the Light Company’s lines.

‘Bravo!’ Slater’s voice mocked Jack from the shadows. ‘Trust you to play the toff.’

Slater had taken to making his own private bivouac, away from the hatred and fear of the company. Now, like a spider crawling from its web, he slunk out of the darkness, his shadowy form huge in the flickering light of the campfires. Instinctively Jack’s hand moved to the handle of his revolver.

Slater noticed. ‘Oh, you’d like to shoot me, would you, Lark?’ Slater stepped forward, suddenly very close and very threatening. ‘Well, here I am, all on my lonesome. Go ahead, shoot me.’

Jack was sorely tempted. He looked into Slater’s moist brown eyes and felt a surge of hatred so intense it threatened to overwhelm all reason.

With an effort, Jack brought his emotions under control. ‘Why don’t you just bugger off and desert? We certainly don’t bloody want you,’ Jack hissed.

Slater’s thick moustache twitched. ‘Damn you, I’m no coward. I’m not frightened of the Russians and I’m most certainly not frightened of you. But you, now you should be frightened. You should be shitting in your fucking breeches, boy.’

Jack gritted his teeth and said nothing.

‘You took away my stripes.’ Slater’s voice quivered with emotion, something Jack had never expected the brute of a man to reveal. It was like hearing armour crack. ‘I thought about peaching on you, telling the whole world what a fraud you are, you by-blow of a doxy,’ Slater went on quietly and evenly, his emotion back under control. ‘But then I figured why give the army the bother of dealing with you when I could get so much pleasure out of doing it myself.’ He licked his lips. ‘You’d better take care. There’s no knowing what could happen in the heat of battle. Why, I hear some officers have been hit in the back, shot by their own men, can you believe?’

Slater stepped back and without a word Jack turned away towards the nearest fire, as if the heat of its flames could melt the chill that gripped him.