Crimea Page 5

  There was quiet for a few moments as two corporals tied Riley to the gratings. Spreadeagled, the naked skin of his back looked very pale against the dark wood of the grating. Jack could nearly taste the tension as the assembled 113th watched, eyes narrow, hard, frustrated and contemptuous. He felt their rising hatred for Snodgrass in particular and officers in general; including him, no doubt. Thunder rumbled a mile away while lightning flickered a bright threat through ugly dark clouds: nature acting as a symbol of the tension on board Poseidon.

  For a moment Jack remembered a past experience, knocking at the door of his headmaster before an appointment with the cane. He remembered the dread churning of his stomach and the sick fear; did Riley feel like that? He did not look apprehensive; he looked relaxed.

  A sudden gust of wind ruffled the surface of the sea, kicking the tops off the waves; was it the dying flick of the storm's tail or a portent of worse to come? Some of the men staggered; Jack saw the vicious-faced Scotsman steadying the boy. The ranks swayed, righted themselves and faced their front.

  'Sergeants! Keep these men standing to attention, or there will be more feeling the cat!' Snodgrass removed his hat. 'Surgeon – pronounce that man fit to receive punishment.'

  With a seaman supporting him Dr Goss staggered to Riley, glanced at him and nodded to Snodgrass.

  'Proceed,' Snodgrass leaned forward slightly as if to get a better view and the Provost Sergeant nodded to the burlier of the two corporals, who ran his fingers through the tails of the lash, stepped back for balance on the heaving deck and laid on with a grunt of effort.

  Jack saw a shiver run through the ranks as the first stroke of the cat landed on Riley's back. Others followed in a merciless procession of pain. Soon a red streak extended from Riley's right shoulder to the left side of his back, deepening in colour as the flogging continued. After twenty strokes Riley writhed a little but made no sound. After twenty-five, the Provost Sergeant ordered the second corporal to take over. Jack took his gaze from the suffering Riley to examine the men. The veterans, those who had transferred, voluntarily or otherwise, from other regiments looked on without visible expression: they had probably seen worse before. What they were thinking, however, he could not tell; their thoughts and their souls were the only things in their regulated lives over which they had control. The recruits looked shocked, angry or sick; they had not yet learned to control their outward emotions. Three of the youngest fainted; Jack stopped himself from moving forward; the Johnny Raws would have to learn to accept unpleasant sights if they wanted to wear the uniform of Queen Victoria. He focussed on the boy who stood in the second rank from the rear, sandwiched between the Scotsman and Thorpe. He looked very young, very pale and very upset. Jack narrowed his eyes, trying to place him; there was something familiar about that man, and something not right. He was leaning against the Scotsman- was he holding his hand?

  Dear God: he was! Jack felt a twist of disgust. He had heard of such behaviour among some of the boys at school although he had never personally encountered it. Jack took a step forward, hesitated and stopped.

  The realisation came to him in a mixture of relief, shock and concern. Yes, the Scotsman was holding the boy's hand, but there was nothing improper, or at least nothing immoral about it. That boy was no boy; he was a woman in a man's uniform. That was Charlotte Riley. Dear God! No wonder she had looked upset, watching the ship's corporals flog her husband.

  'Punishment complete, sir.' The Provost Sergeant reported.

  'Very good; carry on Provost Sergeant. Captain Fleming, take over here. The usual drill.'

  Snodgrass replaced his hat, turned on his heel and stomped across the deck, leaving a smell of stale brandy. Charlotte Riley straightened up, her eyes unreadable; only the hatred was evident. Jack wondered how she got on board and decided not to investigate. One flogging was one too many.

  The Provost Sergeant ordered Riley cut down, threw a great coat over his back and escorted him below deck, with the surgeon taking a surreptitious sip from a silver flask. Charlotte Riley watched; behind the moisture, her eyes were like acid. The day's routine continued, with two-thirds of the men filing below decks and Fleming having the others practise musket drill on deck. Until the storm returned.

  Jack had crossed the Mediterranean on his long journey to Burma and thought he understood the sea, but the ferocity of the storm took him by surprise. One moment the men were drilling on deck, the next the wind was screaming through the rigging. The brig heeled to port, nearly on her beam ends as waves smashed against the hull and sent hundreds of gallons of lukewarm seawater cascading among the staggering soldiers.

  'Get these bloody lobsters out of the way!' Captain Evans pushed Fleming aside as he took his position on the quarterdeck and roared a string of orders that saw bare-footed seamen dodging reeling soldiers and leaping up the ratlines to haul in the straining sails.

  'My orders were to drill the men,' Fleming looked even older when he was at sea; he was grey of hair and grey of skin, a man who had given up any hope of career advancement many years before and who followed orders and nothing else.

  'You'll be drilling them in Davy Jones' locker then!'Evans shouted. 'If they get in the way of my lads I'll have then thrown overboard.'

  Jack saw the confusion cross Fleming's face as he realised he would have to make a decision that ran counter to Major Snodgrass's orders.

  'Shall I start getting the men in sir? Before we lose half of them over the side?' Jack thought it an idea to encourage Fleming's thought- making process.

  'What?' Fleming stared at Jack, and then glanced at the hatch down which Snodgrass had disappeared.

  'Colonel Murphy would not like his men to be washed overboard,' Jack deliberately used rank as a lever.

  'The colonel is incapacitated,' Fleming reminded. 'He's bad with consumption.'

  'He will recover,' Jack said; 'he's tough.' He staggered as the wind strengthened and altered angle so Poseidon bucked madly and the men aloft had to hold grimly on as the masts spun and the yard-arms dipped toward the surging maelstrom of the sea. He saw an entire file of soldiers fall on their side and roll toward the rail. One man slipped over the side and hung on desperately, screaming for help as his feet and legs dangled in the lunging waves.

  'Wilkinson!' A soldier stepped forward and then fell as the deck heeled to an impossible angle.

  'Hold on!' Jack slid down the ladders and slithered across the heeling deck, grabbing hold of anything he could for support. Captain Evans roared orders that saw the seamen furl every scrap of canvas aloft and the helmsman struggle with the wheel, trying to turn the ship, so her bows faced into the wind.

  By that time Jack had reached the man hanging from the rail. 'Hold on!'

  'I'm going to fall!' Wilkinson screamed; his eyes were wide with terror, his mouth hanging open, showing rotten teeth.

  Reaching forward, Jack grabbed hold of his arm, just as Wilkinson lost his grip and fell overboard.

  'Get a rope!' Jack saw Wilkinson's face, mouth wide, saw one hand emerge from the sea in despair, and heard his long wail of despair. A seaman joined Jack at the rail and tossed a line; he shouted something, his words whipped away by the wind.

  'Hold the end of the line!' Jack yelled to the seaman. He poised on top of the rail, saw Wilkinson's head appear and disappear under the sea, and jumped. He landed with an untidy splash, felt momentary panic as he sunk beneath the surface and struck out in what he hoped was the right direction.

  From down here the sea was even wilder, the waves higher, curling at the tips as if reaching to haul him down to his death. Jack saw Wilkinson's head bob on the surface of a rising wave, saw his arm lift in either hope or despair and then another wave rose between them, blocking his view. He had a momentary glimpse of the rope dancing on top of the sea, grabbed it and thrust into the sea. He opened his mouth to shout to the soldier, swallowed half a pint of salt water, gagged, tried to swear and coughed instead.

  Dear God: am I to drown with nothin
g achieved?

  He rose on the crest of a wave and looked around. Poseidon seemed a long way off, her masts spiralling to a ragged sky, her rail lined with white faces and scarlet uniforms. There was no sign of Wilkinson; nothing except the sea, with the wind whipping the surface into a haze of spindrift.

  The wave sunk again and Jack shouted, hoping for a reply from the missing man. He heard nothing except the roar and hiss of the sea.

  'He's gone, Windrush!' A speaking trumpet distorted Captain Evans' words into a metallic blare. 'Hold onto the rope and…' the wind stole the end of the sentence. Jack held the rope and felt somebody hauling him back to Poseidon. He gasped as he submerged, closed his mouth too late to avoid swallowing seawater and cursed as he slammed against the rough hull with a flesh-ripping thump.

  There was a single soldier among the seamen hauling on the rope. The others watched, stone-eyed as he crawled over the rail and collapsed on the deck in a gasping heap. When he looked up the soldier's lips were moving, and then he stepped back and became merely another anonymous face in the amorphous mass of redcoats. Jack recognised him as the private he had seen reading a book.

  'You're a bloody fool,' Windrush,'Snodgrass had started his day's drinking. 'You could have drowned out there and for what?'

  'To save a man's life, sir,' Jack said.

  Snodgrass snorted. 'An officer's life is worth a hundred of a private soldier, especially the scoundrels in this infamous regiment. And you won't get any thanks from them; gratitude is an unknown quantity among the lower orders.'

  They stood on the quarterdeck with the dying kick of the storm howling through the rigging and the seamen working aloft.

  'They're our men, sir; our responsibility.'

  'Did you save him?' Snodgrass asked suddenly.

  'No, sir,' Jack said.

  'In that case, Windrush, you put your life in danger and nearly cost the regiment an officer shortly before we go on campaign. That is a gross dereliction of duty. I would send you to the colonel if he were not indisposed. As I am acting for him, I will decide your fate; you are orderly officer until we reach Bulgaria or wherever it is we are bound.'

  'Yes, sir.' Jack could say nothing else. Instead, he retched and vomited more sea water.

  When he scrambled below deck, Jack did not have to ask who the silent soldier was who stood beside Riley.

  'It's all right, Mrs Riley,' he said softly, 'I know who you are.'

  Charlotte emerged from the shadows as Coleman, and the small Scotsman eased aside. 'I'm not doing any harm,' she thrust her chin out stubbornly.

  'You are breaking regulations,' Jack said. 'How is your husband?'

  'I'm all right sir.' Riley lay on his face on a wooden cot.

  Jack looked at his back. The cat had created a livid purple bruise that ran diagonally across his back, with the skin broken in half a dozen places. 'What did the doctor say?'

  'I'll be back on duty in two days,' Riley said.

  'Only if you're fit,' Jack said. 'I am sorry that happened.' He added, and damn the regulations. Nodding to Charlotte, he rose to leave.

  'I'll kill Snodgrass for that.' The words were low, uttered in a hiss far more menacing than any shout.

  'We've seen one hanging in this regiment, Mrs Riley,' Jack said, 'I don't want to see any more.' He held her eyes until she looked away.

  That storm had sent Poseidon back a hundred miles, ripped the topsails to shreds and damaged the rigging. Jack swore in frustration as Captain Evans seemed to take as long as possible to make the necessary repairs and Poseidon wallowed in a greasy swell. When they did sail again, Evans realised that that salt water had contaminated the fresh water, so-called at Piraeus, the port of Athens for more. There were days of negotiating the price, haggling between Evans and Snodgrass over who was liable to pay for the thousands of gallons and when they sailed again, they hit more bad weather.

  'We're cursed,' Elliot said as Poseidon threaded her way through the Aegean, dodging squalls and islands. 'By the time we get to the war all the fighting will be over.' He nearly overbalanced as the vessel lurched to port, but the bulkhead of the cabin saved him.

  'That's something to be grateful for,' Snodgrass said. He nodded forward. 'These men will run, again.'

  Elliot straightened up, winced as one of the hanging lanterns swung against his head and sat back down again. 'Anything's better than this blasted ship! We must be weeks behind all the other regiments!'

  Jack nodded. He shared Elliot's frustration. With no money behind him, he could not purchase promotion so only some desperate act in battle could help him advance. Ever since he was commissioned into the 113th Jack knew he had three options; gain promotion to a much higher rank; transfer from the regiment into a more distinguished unit, or try to raise the reputation of the most ill-regarded regiment in the British army. The first was virtually impossible; nearly every officer promotion in the British Army was by purchase, and he was dirt-poor. The alternative was to perform some ludicrous act of heroism in full view of higher ranked officers, which meant virtual suicide as British officers were expected to be recklessly brave. The other options were equally improbably; no other regiment would welcome an officer from the infamous 113th while raising the reputation of a regiment meant its participation with distinction in a series of hard-fought actions. Higher command did not trust this regiment to stand and fight so would not even allow it into battle.

  With the storm abated and Poseidon battering through seas that were only choppy, Jack again slipped below.

  'How is Riley?'

  'He'll be fine,' O'Neill sounded guarded.

  'I'll speak to him,' Jack rose and pushed his way through the crowd, coughing in the foul air. He saw Charlotte's face, and then she vanished behind a screen of soldiers. The small Scotsman stood in front of her, pugnacious, almost challenging him to interfere.

  Riley greeted him with a wry smile. 'I'm all right, sir. I had worse at school.'

  'At school? What sort of school did you attend?' Jack saw a veil replace the smile.

  'Nothing special,' Riley's accent deliberately roughened as he spoke.

  In Jack's experience, only two types of school would treat a boy in such a manner; the schooling ordered by a judge or the public schooling of Eton, Winchester or the like. Riley's accent and education argued for the latter. Gentlemen-rankers were not unknown in the Army, typically men fleeing from gambling debts or sexual scandals. Riley did not seem like a man foolish enough to gamble.

  'You can tell me sometime,' he said. 'Look after Mrs Riley, will you? Not many women would travel in a troopship.'

  He did not ask about matters of decency or privacy. That was not his concern. He only hoped they would reach Bulgaria or wherever they would fight the Russians. However, Jack's frustration grew further when Poseidon eventually did reach Varna. It was the fifth of September, and the army had already left. The roadstead was empty; the army had already gone.

  'What the devil do we do now?' Jack asked.

  Chapter Four

  Black Sea

  September 1854

  'We ask for sailing orders,' Captain Evans said.

  'Will we ever get to this blasted war?' Elliot asked.

  'Once you do, Elliot,' Snodgrass said seriously, 'you will almost certainly wish that you had not.'

  With the young officers openly bemoaning their bad luck, Captain Evans returned to Poseidon and sailed fifteen miles north to Balchik Bay. They arrived just as dawn was breaking from the sea to the east, sending shafts of rosy light onto the ships that rode at anchor.

  'Painted ships upon a painted ocean,' Jack misquoted Coleridge as he stared overboard.

  'Dear Lord in heaven; there's a sight for the eyes to behold.' Elliot said.

  Even the prospect of incurring the wrath of Major Snodgrass could not prevent the officers from crowding into the bows. Warships and transports of all sizes and descriptions filled the bay. With paddles churning the sea into a creamy froth, merchant paddle-steamers attac
hed tow ropes to the bulky Indiamen that held the troops and eased them into five distinct lines. Smoke lay in a greasy black pall above black-painted hulls, obscuring masts and clinging like mist to topsails and royals.

  'I've never seen so many ships at the one time,' Elliot said.

  'Not many people have,' Even Fleming sounded impressed. 'There must be hundreds here, three, maybe four hundred ships.'

  'British maritime power,' Elliot sounded proud. 'And filled with the cream of the British Army, all sailing to somewhere to defeat the Russians.'

  'I wonder where that somewhere is,' Haverdale said. 'We've been out of touch with anybody for so long the war could be over, and we might be sailing home.'

  'Oh don't say that,' Elliot nearly wailed.

  Watching and protecting everybody were the grim guardians of the Royal Navy, silent and professional as they shepherded the merchant vessels and patrolled the edges of the fleet with their gunports closed but crews agile and ready for instant action.

  'I thought I had seen an army when we invaded Burma,' Jack said, 'but it was nothing compared to this.'

  'Look at that,' Fleming pointed to something that floated in the water. Jack looked and shuddered. It was a man's head and upper torso, bobbing up and down in the wake left by the scores of paddle-steamers. As he looked he saw another, and then another; heads and bodies and body parts bouncing on the waves.

  'What the devil…?' Jack wondered.

  'Don't ask me,' Elliot said.

  'There's something wrong here,' Jack said softly. 'Something has happened: maybe there was a battle with the Russians when we were swanning around the Med.' The frustration at being cut off from news for so long built up within him. 'What the devil is going on?'

  'I think we're about to find out,' Elliot pointed to an eight-oared gig that approached them.