The Scarlet Thief (14 page)

‘Drunk!’

‘Not only drunk, Flowers, but drunk on duty. I also have grounds to believe he was responsible for an assault on another of my men.’

‘I can scarcely credit it.’ The adjutant was appalled. ‘Why, he has only just joined the regiment.’

Jack shook his head, as if he too could not believe what he was reporting. ‘I fear we now know why he was thrown out of his former battalion. He was a colour sergeant there, I hear, but he lost his colours for victimising the men under his command. It would also appear he has a habit of making up fanciful tales to suit his spite. It’s a bad show all round.’

‘He’ll have to lose his stripes, of course.’

‘Of course.’ Jack tried to look suitably sombre.

‘I’ll arrange for him to transfer to another company. The timing is not ideal but it would be for the best.’ Lieutenant Flowers shook his head. ‘What possessed him? Drink really is the devil. Perhaps the temperance movement has it right.’

Jack thought of the toothless drunks who begged or stole all day simply to be able to buy the watered-down gin his mother sold. There could not be a better example of the evil of drink but it had never made him hesitate when the ale was being poured. ‘Can you really imagine living without a drink, Flowers? No claret? No porter? No whisky to dull the pain of an evening listening to Major Peacock?’

‘You do have a point.’ Flowers sighed. ‘Captain Devine can take him. His company is at the lowest strength. Let him make a fresh start in another company.’

‘I’d rather keep him. Give him another chance to prove himself.’ Jack wanted Slater close. There was no telling how he would react to losing his stripes and Jack was determined not to give the brutal man any opportunity to spread his poison around another officer’s company.

‘That’s very generous of you, but do you think it’s wise? The man is obviously a malcontent.’

‘I’d rather not. He’s my problem. I don’t like to hoist him on someone else.’

‘Well, it’s your decision, and one that does you great credit. I’ll arrange for the colonel to deal with it this afternoon. He won’t be best pleased. He has other things on his mind.’

‘Such as?’ Jack sensed news.

The adjutant looked around to check that no one could overhear them and dropped his voice. ‘Look, I shouldn’t be telling you this. The colonel wants to make a big announcement after church parade this afternoon and he’ll have a fit if he finds out I have stolen his thunder. Orders have come through from brigade. Raglan has agreed to march. I’ve no idea why he thinks we are ready to move but there you have it. I’m told the French have been making one hell of a fuss as we sit here dilly-dallying. So, ready or not, we’re to be off.’

It was the news the army had long waited to hear. The campaign was about to begin in earnest.

There was barely a cloud to trouble the grey-blue expanse of sky that, to Jack, seemed to have taken on a vastness he had never seen. It stretched from one distant horizon to the other, one great canopy of such immensity that it left him feeling very small. The sun did nothing to lift the spirits of the men who knew they must shortly suffer a long, exhausting march under its unseasonal heat. It brought back memories of the dire period they had endured in the feverish heat at the camp in Varna prior to their departure for the Crimea.

Jack found Tommy Smith working with McCulloch’s orderly, Johnson, using a shot case and a roundshot to grind up more of the green coffee beans that the battalion’s officers consumed at a terrific rate.

‘Good morning. Nice to see you both working on such an important task.’ Jack forced himself to sound jovial in front of McCulloch’s orderly.

‘Mornin’, sir. Lovely day.’

Johnson’s familiar London accent made Jack smile. ‘It is indeed, Johnson,’ he agreed, ‘but I’m afraid I need to borrow Smith.’

‘Course, sir. No bother. He’s no bleeding use anyhow. You’re welcome to him.’

‘Thank you, Johnson. Smith, come with me please.’

Jack led Smith away from the keen ears of his fellow orderly. The officers’ servants thrived on gossip, as he himself knew only too well.

As soon as they were far enough away, Jack confided the adjutant’s information to his orderly who took in the news calmly and immediately understood the need for caution. Any advantage to the Light Company would disappear if the news spread and they had to compete with nearly six hundred men all trying to grab a share of the meagre supplies available.

‘What would you like me to do first, sir?’ Smith asked, keeping his voice low and slowly scanning the surrounding area for anyone who could overhear them.

‘Well, for starters you can stop looking so damn furtive.’

‘Sorry. Bit out of practice.’

Jack chuckled. ‘I’m glad to hear that. I can’t keep checking to see if you’ve filched my pocket book every time I stand near you.’

‘Now, sir, as if I would turn your pockets. Besides, I was never a pickpocket. I had more class.’

‘Truly? You never cease to amaze me.’ Jack shook his head. ‘I have some good news about Slater. I spoke to the adjutant and it’s done. He’ll face a battalion court martial this afternoon. I’ll be there and it’s just a formality. He’ll be reduced to the ranks.’

Smith smiled at the news ‘It’s no less than he deserves after what he did to young Hayward, not to mention yourself. So what do we do about Slater now? He’ll be after you.’

‘For now there is nothing more we can do. But watch my back.’ Jack looked at Smith keenly, seeking reassurance.

‘Just let me get a clear shot of the bastard, sir. I’ll sort him out.’

‘After me, Tommy. After me.’ Jack put the happy notion to one side. ‘Now, as soon as the colonel announces that we are finally to march inland, all hell will break loose. The most important thing is water. I know it’s already hard to get enough but we need to make certain the men’s canteens are full and that we get as much extra as we can carry.’

‘Right you are.’ Smith nodded.

‘Next, ammunition.’

‘No, that’s done,’ Smith said. ‘Digby-Brown carried out an ammunition check after roll call this morning. We all have our full tally. Not even Welsh Davies can have flogged any to the tinkers yet.’

‘Very good.’ Jack was surprised. Perhaps Digby-Brown was finally starting to contribute to the effective running of the company. ‘So that leaves the rations. We’ll have to wait for whatever the rest of the battalion gets issued but looking around the place,’ Jack gestured towards the many heaps of supplies that lay dumped around the battalion lines, ‘there is no way in hell we can take everything with us. Forage around a bit and see what you can square away. And see if you can sniff me out some tea. I’m getting heartily sick of all that bloody green coffee.’

‘I’m sure I can manage that. I’ll say you’re planning to take us off for another drill first thing in the morning so we need to get ready today. No one will question that. Moan like buggery and call you every name under the sun, but question it, no.’

‘I think I’ll ignore that last remark, Fusilier.’

‘As you choose.’ Smith hesitated. ‘The men think you’re doing well, sir. They seem to like you.’

‘What?’ Now Jack was truly surprised. He had not forgotten the near disaster of facing the Cossacks and he did not think the men had either.

‘Oh, they think you’re a rum cove, all right, and they’d as soon see you piss off and leave them alone. But they’re coming round to you. Especially since they heard about you taking a pop at Peacock.’

Jack looked his orderly in the eye, suspecting some flummery or banter in the words. But Smith met his gaze, his expression serious.

‘Well, I’m damn pleased to hear it. It’s about time I got some bloody recognition.’

‘But of course they don’t know you’re a fraud, so don’t let your head swell too much, will you, or it’s likely to get shot right off.’

Jack grinned. ‘Not much chance of that with you to remind me, Smith.’

Reveille sounded in the darkness. The bugle call was picked up and repeated throughout the three armies, strident and remorseless, demanding immediate action.

The British army scrambled to its feet, resembling an anthill that had been poked violently with a stick. They were still woefully unprepared for the long-awaited march. Despairing officers tried to organise their commands and bring order from the confusion, a hopeless endeavour made worse by the ill-informed staff officers to whom they turned for orders.

To the bewilderment and consternation of their French allies, the British were not ready to march at four o’clock as had been agreed the previous evening, nor were they ready at five o’clock. As the early-morning light pushed away the darkness the chaos in their lines was all too apparent.

The failure of the British commissariat was complete. Seven hundred wagons had been expected but barely one-third of that number had arrived. Mountains of supplies would have to be abandoned where they lay. The more enterprising soldiers were taking advantage of the disorder by pilfering the stores, filling their pockets and their greatcoats with extra rations, adding more confusion and delay.

Dealing with the mountains of stores was not the only task left outstanding. There were dozens of sick to be stretchered back to the beach and handed into the dubious care of the army’s medical staff. Water still had to be found for the soldiers’ canteens, no easy task given that the few wells that had been dug now produced only a little brackish water. Rations waited to be distributed, the meat to be carried raw, no time left for the soldiers to cook the salted pork that was all the army provided. The British army was in total disarray.

The French looked on appalled. Their bandsmen bugled and drummed impatiently, as if the martial music could inspire, cajole or shame their maddeningly disorganised allies to order. The French troops had been ready to march since before dawn. They sat despondently on the ground, wondering at the sanity of their masters who had tied their fate to the bungling British.

The coolness of the early morning gradually melted way, the heat building steadily as the sun rose. Miraculously, at nine o’clock in the morning, the British army was finally ready to march. The redcoats had muddled their way to readiness, the enterprise and industry of the battalion officers succeeding where the professionals in the commissariat had failed so completely.

In all their martial splendour, the armies of three countries would march directly for the Russian port of Sevastopol, the key objective of the campaign. Sunlight glinted off metal, battalion colours were unfurled, uniforms of every colour were massed in ranks of infantrymen, guardsmen, fusiliers, grenadiers, gunners, hussars, dragoons and lancers. It was a sight to stir the heart of even the most reluctant soldier.

The French would march on the right flank, with the sea and the might of the two navies on their right. With the French marched Suleiman Pasha and his six thousand Turkish soldiers. The British would march on the left. To smooth the ruffled feathers of the French generals, Raglan, ever the politician, had acceded to their demands to dictate the order of the march. Perhaps the politics of the joint command had distracted the British commander. Or perhaps Raglan saw no danger in the station the British had agreed to occupy in the combined column. Whatever the reason, the British marched with their left flank dangerously exposed. In the days of Wellington, cavalry outriders would have been despatched to patrol and protect the exposed flank. Intrepid young officers on fast, corn-fed horses would ride into the wide plains, probing for danger, so that no enemy formation could approach the open flank undetected. But Wellington was dead and the British army marched in one compact mass, its flank exposed save for a thin screen of light cavalry.

But this was not the morning for doubts. Led by their colours the British soldiers left their fears, their misgivings and their complaints behind them, the brave and stirring tunes from their regimental bands propelling them forward.

The cavalry led the way, the dandies and the aristocrats at the fore, their horses prancing in the excitement. Lord Cardigan, with the 13th Light Dragoons and the 11th Hussars, formed the vanguard of the army. His bitterest enemy, Lord Lucan, who also happened to be his brother-in-law and his commanding officer, led the 8th Hussars and the 17th Lancers on the left flank.

Behind them marched the Rifle Brigade, the feared Greenjackets who had once so tormented Napoleon’s veterans on the battlefields of Portugal, Spain and France. Then, the Greenjackets had been the acclaimed masters of the skirmish line. Now, their descendants were desperate to prove their superiority once again, even in the modern world where every soldier bore the once coveted power of the rifle.

Behind them came the infantry, the men Wellington so harshly titled the scum of the earth. They were the least regarded yet the most important of all the troops that marched that day, for it was the humble redcoat who would decide the fate of the battle to come. Victories were not won by the glamorous cavalry, or by the hard-bitten professionalism of the rifles. Even the deadly killing machines of the artillery would not decide who was victorious. Battles were won by the tenacity, the bravery and the sheer bloody-mindedness of the massed ranks of the infantry. Whether they were guardsman, fusiliers, grenadiers, or just plain redcoated infantrymen, all battles came down to their ability to deliver the power of their massed volleys, their willingness to endure the carnage inflicted upon them and the raw courage that would see them close to butcher the enemy with their bayonets.

The King’s Royal Fusiliers marched at the head of the Light Division. The fusiliers had suffered their fair share of disorder that morning. Many of the men marched with half-full canteens of water or with barely enough rations to last them the day. Yet they marched with pride. It was a day to savour being a fusilier in the service of the Queen.

Jack marched proudly at the head of his company. It was hard for him not to look smug so he did not even try, instead merely nodding his head in acknowledgement of the scowls of his brother officers whose men marched inadequately prepared. The Light Company marched with full canteens of water, and the sergeants and corporals carried numerous spares. Their ration bags were full and Tommy Smith even marched with one of his spare stockings crammed full of tea liberated from one of the many abandoned supply chests. One company, at least, would not be going short.

The fusiliers’ band struck up the opening bars of ‘Cheer, Boys, Cheer!’ It was a firm favourite in the battalion and Jack grinned as he heard the men begin to sing in their deep and surprisingly melodic voices.

The company had come a long way in the few days since they had landed. The men now marched with a cocky air about them, a sureness that had been missing earlier. Watching them, Jack could almost believe they took a certain pride in being one of the first troops to have engaged the enemy. Only the looming presence of Slater cast a shadow over his own confidence.

He turned and saw the enormous redcoat marching easily in his allotted station, his long, loping stride and confident demeanour a reminder of the man’s power. If the whole company had, at first, been wary of the new arrival, now they were openly fearful of him. The loss of his sergeant’s stripes had added a chilling bitterness to the man and not even the boldest redcoat wanted to spend a moment in his company.

The first Light Company fusilier collapsed shortly before the march was one hour old. Fusilier Macclesbridge had been convinced he had been dying for days. His messmates, long used to his complaints, ignored his whines and daily litany of distress. If Macclesbridge was not complaining of dying of thirst then he was starving to death. He did not get a fever without being certain he had got the plague. That morning he had woken convinced that he had the cholera and his comrades had laughed at his malingering ways. Yet this time he was right. One moment he was cursing as the men marching around him belted out the chorus to ‘The Girl I left Behind’, the next his face darkened and he stumbled forward, crashing into the back of the man in front and falling to the ground choking on a torrent of vomit that erupted from his throat.

Macclesbridge was the first to fall but he was not the last.

The heat of the sun cooked the fusiliers in their thick woollen coats, stewing them in a soup of sweat that chafed their skin. Another two men from the company collapsed before midday, unable to find the strength to march under the maddening heat. After the first few hard miles, barely one fusilier had more than a few mouthfuls of warm brackish water left in his canteen. The march had barely begun but already the men trudged in misery.

They soon marched in silence, the joy of the early morning forgotten. The bandsmen had been forced to stow their musical instruments and carry out their secondary role as stretcher-bearers, hauling the sick out of the line of march lest they be trampled into the dust by the never-ending procession that ground its way forward. All too soon, the bandsmen were overwhelmed by the sheer number of men falling to the ground and by the dozens of redcoats who were too weak to rise to their feet after the halts that were now being called every half hour.

The pace of the march slowed to barely a crawl. The ground behind and to either side of the army became littered with abandoned equipment and with the crumpled forms of those unable to carry on. Men sank to their knees in delirium, their anguished cries for water breaking the hearts of their mates who could do nothing but march on and leave them to the less than tender mercies of the overworked bandsmen.

After another hour picking their way through the detritus that littered the path ahead of them, the fusiliers could march no more. The men fell out, before the order was given, many sinking to the ground where they stood.

The army was disintegrating. The heat and the cholera threatened to end the campaign after barely ten miles.

Jack observed the pale faces of his men as they sank to the ground. He saw their drawn, haggard expressions, their mouths tinged blue from dehydration. Worst of all was the listlessness and the exhaustion in their eyes. It would be a relief to sink to the ground with them, to give in to the pain that wracked his body. A terrible thirst tormented his every thought. Anything was preferable to the torture of carrying on in this living hell. But Jack refused to give in. Everything he had gone through since the army had landed a few short days ago would be for naught if he gave in to the demands of his battered body.

A mocking laugh caught his attention. Jack turned his head to see which of his men had the energy to find something in this terrible situation to laugh about. Sitting to one side of the company, Slater took a long drink from a full canteen, carelessly letting drops of the precious water spill from his mouth. Against his will, Jack licked his cracked and swollen lips, helpless in the face of his desire to drink. He could smell the water, the mere thought of drinking made his body tremble with desire.

Slater watched the company’s reaction as he drank. He lowered the canteen slowly, his lips wet from the long draught. He leisurely wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and belched. The men turned away.

Jack watched the performance, his hands clenching into fists at his impotence to deal with the bastard’s mockery. Slater would pay for this particular pantomime, as he would pay for all his violent thuggery.

But revenge would have to wait. With the column of infantry stalled, staff officers galloped backwards and forwards to rouse the men, the flanks of their tired mounts lathered in sweat.

‘To your feet!’ Colonel Morris shouted. On horseback, the colonel looked imposing. His charger was huge, jet-black save for a white blaze on its forehead and of such an evil temper that only the colonel could ride him. Now the fine horse was streaked with sweat, its eyes rolling in their sockets as Morris paraded him past the slumped ranks of his battalion.

‘On your feet, my boys! On your feet my brave, brave boys!’

Jack expected the colonel’s call to go unheeded but, to his surprise, the men dug deep into their reserves of strength and struggled to their feet once more, responding to their beloved colonel. Like an army of the dead, the fusiliers rose from the ground and stumbled back into formation.

‘That’s it, my boys!’ Morris applauded the effort, encouraging his men as best he could. ‘I am proud of you. Proud of all of you,’ he shouted, moving up and down the flank of the column that was slowly taking shape. ‘That’s the way. It will be time to rest soon enough. But not now. One more effort. One more march.’

A handful of staff officers came galloping back down the length of the infantry column, their urgency attracting the attention of those fusiliers with enough strength to still be interested in their surroundings.

One, a cornet from the 7th Hussars, reined in hard alongside Colonel Morris. The hussar officer’s bay horse skittered nervously, moving in a tight half-circle, as the cornet leant forward in his saddle to hand a piece of paper to Morris.