Crimea Page 4

  'There's somebody there!' The call was in English, with that same drawling accent, and accompanied by wide splay of light across the garden. One by one and then in twos and threes, lights came on in the house as unseen hands opened the curtains and threw back the shutters.

  Jack turned his head away from the light so as not to be recognised just as a pistol cracked out two feet from his head. He flinched and blinked as the muzzle-flare temporarily blinded him. 'What the devil!'

  There was a loud howl from beneath, and he felt the pressure on his leg relax. He jerked it free and scrambled up the rope, to see Riley lying prone on top of the wall, holding a short, double-barrelled pistol. 'I hate dogs,' he said. 'Up you come, sir.'

  Chapter Three

  Malta

  Spring and Summer 1854

  General Reading looked up as Jack limped across the room to his desk. 'I heard that there was a disturbance near the harbour last night. I hope nobody caught you.'

  'No, sir.' Jack placed the pile of documents on Reading's desk. 'I took everything I could find, sir. These are the papers I thought looked most interesting.'

  Reading shuffled through them quickly and rang his brass bell. The same young lieutenant appeared, looked down his aristocratic nose at Windrush and sprang to immediate attention. 'Sir?'

  'Fetch Mr Bulloch.'

  A moment later Bulloch appeared. 'Morning General, morning Windrush.' He lifted the documents. 'You were successful I see.' He flicked through them. 'Did anybody see you?'

  'Yes, sir; as we left,' Jack said, 'but I don't believe that they saw our faces. Private Riley did most of the work, sir.'

  'Did he indeed?' Bulloch lifted an eyebrow. 'And where did he acquire the skill to break into a house?'

  'I believe he was a burglar, sir,' Jack said.

  'Not by that name, I wager.' Bulloch frowned as he looked at one of the sheets of paper. 'And I wonder about Stevensen's real name as well. None of these papers is in Swedish. They are in English, Maltese, Russian and French, yes, but not Swedish.' He placed them in the leather case he carried. 'Did you notice anything unusual about the house, Windrush?'

  'Only that three men were patrolling, and they spoke English as well, sir.'

  'English has been used as the lingua-franca in Malta ever since we occupied the island,' Bulloch said, 'so speaking English is not unusual.'

  'They did not speak it like Maltese, sir,' Jack said. 'They spoke it like native speakers, I think.'

  'Like Englishmen?' Reading asked.

  'No,' Jack thought for a moment. 'Not quite. I did not recognise the accent, sir. It may have been from one of the colonies; Canada perhaps or Van Diemen's Land.'

  'A Demonian?' Bulloch sounded suddenly interested. 'It could be a ticket of leave man – or an escaped convict.' He took a deep breath. 'What was he like?'

  'There were three that I saw. Two were mundane, men who you would not notice in a crowd; the other was tall with an eyepatch. He spoke more.'

  'He was tall with an eyepatch and a colonial accent.' Bulloch altered his voice and said, 'did he speak with a drawl like this, unhurried and soft?'

  'Yes, that's it,' Jack agreed.

  'I will watch for them,' Bulloch said. 'You, of course, won't be here.' He looked at Reading, 'now that Lieutenant Windrush has more than done what you ordered, general, I am sure you will soon keep your side of the agreement.'

  Windrush almost felt the tension in the room as Reading stiffened in his chair. 'The 113th are bound east, and Lieutenant Windrush will be with them. I trust his regiment will not let us down if they are ever fortunate enough to see action. I am not sure that a regiment that includes murderers, blackguards and, it seems, a professional burglar, should be allowed to represent the British Army.'

  'In that case,' Bulloch said, 'the French and Turks would have to fight alone.' His grin did nothing to take the sting from his words.

  'Your beloved 113th will be part of the Army of the East, Windrush,' General Reading said, 'and God help the general who has you under his command.'

  Jack controlled his rising anger. 'My boys proved themselves in Burma, sir.'

  Reading fixed him with a cold glare. 'You have far too much to say for yourself, Windrush. You will find that chasing dacoits through the jungle and facing regular European soldiers, even Russians, are two different things. Dismissed.'

  Jack felt Reading's eyes poisonous on his back as he left the room.

  They stood in the lee of the wall at the Grand Harbour, watching the regiments embark and listened to the singing of the men.

  Cheer Boys cheer,

  For country mother country

  Cheer boys cheer

  For a willing strong right hand

  Cheer boys cheer

  There's hope for honest labour

  Cheer boys cheer

  For a new and happy land.

  Coleman spat on the ground. 'New and happy land my arse. They're going out East; don't they realise what the East is? A shit hole of flies and filth, with women riddled with disease and men who smile to your face and plan to cut your throat behind your back.'

  'They're off to scuttle the Ruskies in Scutari,' Thorpe said as the red-coated men filed on board the steamship to the sound of the band. They marched past the paddle-boxes, boots clumping on the wooden deck, officers looking debonair and military, the men singing, cheering, happy to be sailing to war.

  'When's it our turn, sir?' O'Neill asked for the tenth time. 'It's been weeks now since General Reading promised us we're heading out and the boys started going east.'

  'I wish I knew, O'Neill.'

  As time passed, the 113th grew restless, watching other regiments arrive on the island and leave days later, while they remained static in their scattered quarters. Petty offences increased, with the sergeants busy keeping the men under control and Colonel Murphy ordering men to double duties and various forms of field punishment. 'Any more trouble and it will be the cat!' Major Snodgrass threatened as they paraded before him in the baking heat. 'I haven't forgotten your behaviour in India, by God.'

  'They treat us worse than cattle,' Coleman grumbled.

  'Their time will come,' Thorpe's murmur was bitter with resentment.

  'Silence in the ranks!' Major Snodgrass ordered. 'Take these men's names!'

  The resulting silence was ugly. Jack ran his gaze across the men: although their faces were devoid of expression, their eyes were vicious. Any British regiment contained an element of the underclass. In the 113th the percentage was far higher. Their combined poisonous gaze followed Snodgrass as he blasted them. In the background, Colonel Murphy stood stiffly with the empty sleeve a reminder of the arm he had lost at the battle of Chillianwalla.

  'If we don't move soon, Captain Haverdale said quietly, 'there will be a mutiny. This rabble is getting restless.'

  The harsh blare of a bugle roused them in the dark of a late July morning, with the air pressing languid upon them and the dust of the previous day still grating between their teeth.

  'Ready, boys! We're shipping out!'

  It was the call they had long been waiting for, yet the men were so used to disappointment that they responded with lethargy rather than enthusiasm.

  'It's another mistake,' Coleman said. 'They'll get us ready and march us back down to Valetta and Mdina or somewhere else thousands of miles from the Russians; then they'll march us back again.'

  'The grand old Duke of York is alive, well and residing in Malta,' Riley's tones was distinct amidst the uneducated and illiterate murmurs of his fellows.

  'Who the hell's the Duke of York and how come he's so grand?' The accent was uncompromisingly Scottish west coast; the speaker below average height with a gaunt, lined face. Jack marked him out as potential trouble and resolved to learn his name.

  He called his men together and ushered them across country to where the regiment rallied at Kalkara, overlooking the Grand Harbour. They formed in rigid scarlet ranks, sweating, trembling with the effort of standing to att
ention under the mid-morning sun.

  'Our ship is in, gentlemen,' Colonel Murphy announced, 'today we sail for the East.'

  Jack had not expected the sudden outbreak of enthusiasm from the men. They cheered, threw their hats in the air, shook hands as if celebrating something significant or waved their Brown Bess muskets like madmen.

  'For a regiment that is not supposed to be keen to fight,' Jack said, 'they seem very eager to go to war.'

  Major Snodgrass grunted. 'Give them one week on campaign, and they will be cheering just as loudly to run home.'

  'My men won't run,' Jack said.

  'I thought that before Chillianwalla,' Snodgrass was bitter. 'And they ran like frightened rabbits.'

  'My men behaved well in Burma.' Jack did not add 'most of the time' as he remembered the beginning of that campaign and the men he had left behind.

  Snodgrass grunted. 'One cannot compare the Burmese with the Sikhs. Or with the Russians.' He stiffened as Colonel Murphy slid down from his horse and approached them.

  'I trust your men are all ready to go, gentlemen?' Murphy faced them, slight and weathered, with his voice hoarse and his eyes deep-sunk in his face.

  'All ready sir. Which ship are we on?' Snodgrass asked.

  'Poseidon,' Murphy said, 'the name augers well. Poseidon was the Greek god of the sea.'

  'Where is she?' Jack examined the ships in harbour. As well as three Royal Navy warships there were two steam paddle ships and a battered brig that limped under topsails only. He guessed the answer even before Murphy focussed his telescope.

  'That sailing ship,' Murphy said, 'But only the devil knows how we are to fit the entire regiment in her.'

  'It does not matter,' Snodgrass said. 'We're only the 113th; nobody cares a damn about us.'

  'There will be no wives accompanying the regiment,' Murphy said. 'There is no space. They will follow by a later transport. I will make no exceptions: that rule includes officers as well as men.'

  Jack raised his eyebrows. It was a rule that made perfect sense when the ship was so crowded, but it would be hard for the men. In his opinion a soldier's life was not right for a married man; it was too unstable, too precarious and added unnecessary worry to a soldier's lot. Soldiers should be married to their regiment and profession. If they wanted to use a woman, there were plenty prostitutes drawn to every garrison town like bluebottles to a pile of dung. All the same, men such as Riley would feel the loss.

  'We are the British Army,' Murphy coughed and turned aside, not quite quickly enough to hide the bright dribble of blood at the side of his mouth. 'We will cope.'

  'Of course, we will, sir,' Snodgrass gave an impressive salute.

  'It's like the bloody Ark,' Coleman said, 'filing on board two by two like bloody animals.'

  'Except the animals had more space than we do,' Thorpe looked at their accommodation. 'If we all lie down at once we will be piled three deep on top of each other.'

  'Stop grumbling you lot,' O'Neill shouted, 'it's only a short voyage across the Med, a week at most. Think yourselves lucky you're not sailing from England to New South Wales in this old tub. Now get settled!'

  'Parade on deck in twenty minutes,' Snodgrass shouted. 'I intend to maintain military discipline on this ship so when the 113th arrives out East we will be fit to fight.' He lowered his voice, 'or as fit as you blackguards can ever be.'

  With all six hundred and forty officers and men of the 113th on parade, the deck of Poseidon was packed. Every square inch was occupied by a red-coated soldier, with the crew watching from aloft and openly cursing the loss of freedom on their vessel.

  'Men!' Snodgrass stood on the slightly raised quarterdeck with the captains and lieutenants gathered around him. 'Colonel Murphy is indisposed at present so I, as senior major, am taking command.'

  Jack felt, rather than saw, the shiver that ran through the ranks. He looked sideways, seeing the bitter lines on the face of Snodgrass and the tell-tale red-veins on his nose.

  'Many of your men have come to us from other regiments,' Snodgrass said. 'You were not wanted there. You are the drunkards, the troublemakers, the insubordinate, and the slow.' He stopped then. Jack could see the expressions of the men; they were sullen, unresponsive. He waited for Snodgrass to say something to inspire them.

  'We in the 113th have given you a second chance,' Snodgrass said. 'I will make sure you are up to scratch. However poor you may be, I intend to make soldiers out of you. Those that don't come up to the mark … Remember Private Scattergood.'

  Jack was not the only one who winced. The reminder of their executed colleague passed like a black shadow across the men. Some faces fell into more profound gloom; some gave a momentary scowl or gave a deep intake of breath. Riley threw Snodgrass a look that should have curdled the blood in his veins. The little Scotsman at Riley's side gave no hint of any emotion except a slight twitch of his thin lips.

  'That was hardly diplomatic,' Lieutenant Elliot had purchased into the 113th from the 50th Foot only a few days previously. Jack recognised the pride with which he touched the insignia that revealed his exalted rank. One week ago he had been a lowly ensign; now he felt himself a leader of men.

  'We'll see how the men react,' Jack murmured. He was aware of a seagull circling overhead, the bird's eyes bright as it surveyed the men below. If we are the Lords of Creation why is that creature free while we are under orders to sail to a slaughterhouse over which we have no control?

  'There are too many of you for everyone to parade together.' Despite the constant creaking of the old wooden ship, Snodgrass's voice carried to all parts of the deck. 'So we will do this navy fashion and divide you into three watches. That way there will be more space below.'

  'And no rest period for the sergeants or crew,' Elliot said quietly.

  'The strictest discipline will be maintained,' Snodgrass said. 'I depend on my officers and non-commissioned officers to keep you in order.'

  Bored of watching the humans, the seagull winged away. Lacking the freedom of the bird, the men who filled the packed scarlet ranks on the deck below waited for orders. The 113th sailed to war.

  With the men working eight hours out of every twenty-four, day and night, Poseidon was never quiet. Snodgrass had the men marching up, and down the limited space the deck allowed, had them aiming their Brown Bess muskets from kneeling and standing positions and had them wheeling around the main mast in a circular motion.

  'Captain Neilson,' Snodgrass faced a saturnine officer with a face yellowed by years in the tropics. 'Take over here. Keep the men busy!' He paused and pointed to a prostrate figure beside the rail, 'why is that man lying down?'

  'He's seasick, sir,' a sergeant said.

  'Get him up! That is only weakness!' Snodgrass's face darkened. 'Stand up sir! Get to your feet!'

  The man tried to respond, lurched groggily and promptly vomited over the deck.

  'You disgusting fellow! That's gross impertinence!'

  Riley stepped out of the ranks. 'He could not help it, sir! He's sick!'

  'Damn your impertinence! Put that man in irons, sergeant! We'll have him flogged tomorrow and see if he's so clever after that.'

  Jack stepped forward. 'Sir, if I may, he meant nothing by it. He was speaking up for his colleague.' Jack saw Snodgrass stiffen and a beefy sergeant push back the small Scotsman and a soft-faced soldier who had shifted forward as if to intervene.

  'Fifty for that man, sergeant. And you, Windrush, will be on duty for the next twenty-four hours. If I see you below decks before midnight tomorrow…' he let the implied threat hang in the air.

  Jack met Riley's eye and gave a slight nod. He could not help; he could only let his erstwhile housebreaking companion know that he sympathised if nothing else. The thought of the quiet-spoken, intelligent Riley stripped and flogged was not something Jack wished to contemplate.

  Jack had heard that the Mediterranean was a quiet sea, but the storm that blasted them next day would not have disgraced any North Sea squall. L
umpy seas smashed into the creaking brig, straining her sideways, so her port yard arms nearly dipped into the waves, and her reluctant passengers yelled as they tumbled around the deck. The seasickness increased tenfold, and the ship's surgeon was overworked with minor bumps and cuts as well as a few more serious breaks. It was a full twelve hours before the weather moderated to a gale and then Snodgrass ordered the regiment assembled.

  'This is a reprieve, not an ending,' Captain Evans, the commander of Poseidon, was short, dark and Welsh. He gestured to the angry clouds that swirled around. 'We've worse to come so don't fool around with your soldier games for long.'

  'I assure you, Captain, that this is no game.' Snodgrass said grimly.

  Jack took a deep breath as the Provost Sergeant brought Riley out from the black depths of the ship. Stripped to the waist, Riley held himself erect as his gaze fixed on a face in the ranks of the 113th and gave a brief nod, as if of reassurance.

  Jack scanned his men; Riley had nodded to either that small-made Scotsman or the soft-faced man, boy even, who stood at his side. Perhaps both, although from the expression of mixed fury and anguish on the boy's face, Jack suspected it was him. He frowned; there was something wrong here, something on which

  he could not put his finger.

  Riley walked firmly to the gratings that had been lashed upright beside the ladder that led from the main deck to the quarterdeck. Except for that single nod toward the men, he had looked only in front.

  'That man's in the wrong regiment,' Elliot said, 'with his bearing, he should be in the guards, not the 113th.'

  'His bearing will alter after fifty of the cat,' Jack swallowed hard, fighting his nausea.

  'Have you seen a flogging before?' Elliot sounded nervous.

  'Only at school,' Jack tried to sound nonchalant.

  'Me too.' Elliot said. 'It was not quite the same though.'

  'Not quite,' Jack agreed. He tore his horrified gaze from Riley to the watching men. The boy looked sick; his eyes were anguished and his hands curling around the fabric of his tunic as he stood at attention. Jack saw him lift a hand to his eyes as if to wipe away a tear, and hurriedly put it down as a sergeant barked at him.