There Will Be Phlogiston (36 page)

For the consideration of the court, herein
are collected a number of witness accounts, items of personal
correspondence, and formal reports to and by the former head of the
Department of Aethermantic Operations and Intelligence. These
papers have been collated in order that the court may pass
judgement on Captain George England in the matter of his
involvement in the events of 17 March 1866.

My dearest mother,

Thank you for your most recent letter, and the tea,
which could not have been better received. I shared it with my new
friend Nolan, who, while foreign and a little stand-offish, is a
most remarkable fellow. He has travelled all over Europe, and
indeed the world, having trained in Tulln and served in the armies
of the Austro-Hungarian Empire before being granted his commission
in the Dragoons. He is teaching me many things.

Since my last letter, we have left Varna and arrived
in the Crimea proper, some short distance from a town called
Eupatoria. The journey has been hard for many of my fellows, who
have suffered much from illness, but I remain secure in the
rightness and honour of our cause. The last of our horses are being
disembarked even as I write, and I find myself filled with a
tremendous swell of pride at being part of so grand and glorious an
operation as this. Why, even as we arrived, the local Tartars
flocked from their villages to trade fruit and supplies with us. I
told Nolan that I felt as though I was at the beginning of a great
adventure. He scoffed at me.

I must cut this letter short. I lack a table, and in
writing on the ground I fear that I am spoiling good paper, which
is also in short supply. I shall write again soon when
circumstances are more favourable.

Your loving son,

George

My dearest mother,

Much has occurred since my last letter. A mere two
days after I wrote you last, we had our first skirmish with the
Russian bear. It was not a true battle, you understand, but our
Light Brigade clashed with a small force of cossacks near the river
Belbec. The engagement was brief and our casualties restricted to a
few horses and some men injured by round shot, but we were
victorious nevertheless. I had arranged for Nolan to ride alongside
the lancers that day, and I fancy that he fought especially
valiantly. But perhaps I am letting my knowledge of the man’s good
character affect my recollection.

Our first true battle took place only two days
later, at Alma. News of this victory has, I am sure, already
reached you at home, for it was truly a triumph. Our infantry
advance seemed unstoppable, the Russian muskets not nearly a match
for our fine British rifles. I cannot put into words the splendour
of it. My one regret is that the day saw little opportunity for we
cavalrymen to prove ourselves in like manner. I commiserated to
this effect with Nolan after the battle, but he assured me that I
would see action enough before matters were concluded. I have come
to very much value his council.

Although recent days have seen much cause for
rejoicing, the campaign has not been without its sorrows. Many good
men are dead today who were alive just a fortnight past, and the
camp is slowly filling with the wounded, and their moaning in the
night can be quite fearful. We lose yet more to cholera and to
dysentery—why, Col. Lawrenson himself has been taken so ill that he
has been forced to leave the front. He is a fine man, and no doubt
the whole 17th is praying for his speedy recovery.

I fear I may not be able to write for some time. We
are approaching Sevastopol, and the grim and glorious business of
war may now be expected to begin in earnest. You shall doubtless
hear from me again once the city has fallen.

Your loving son,

George

My dearest mother,

I hope that the weeks since my last letter have not
been too difficult a time for you, and that whatever concerns or
uncertainties you may have had about my fate have not affected your
health. Know first and foremost that I am alive and, for the most
part, well.

News of our defeat at Balaclava, and of my
regiment’s role in the battle, will doubtless have reached England
weeks before my letter arrives. You must, therefore, have heard how
we were ordered to charge the Russian guns, and how we rode through
a hell of cannon fire to do our duty. I can only hope that the
valour of my fallen brothers-in-arms will be remembered by our
countrymen as it deserves to be remembered.

My memories of the battle are hazy. I had been
placed in command of the 17th after Major Willett died of cholera
on the 22nd, and although I like to feel that I honoured my charge
as well as any man could have in the circumstances, I was the least
seasoned of the officers commanding the regiments of the Light
Brigade on the day of the battle. Were it not for Nolan’s
consistent support, I fear I should have felt quite out of sorts.
Even with his ever-steadying presence, I felt that there was much
confusion and much disagreement during the battle about the proper
disposition of the cavalry. At last the Light and Heavy brigades
were separated, against the advice of several of the officers, and
we of the Light Brigade were left upon the plateau.

It fell upon Nolan, who always excelled in such
matters, to relay orders between Lords Raglan, Lucan, and Cardigan,
and it was he who relayed the final order from Lord Raglan to seize
the guns. Seeing only one set of guns, Lord Lucan instructed Lord
Cardigan to lead our brigade into the valley, towards the Russian
cannon. I recall that my heart at once was seized with a mix of joy
and trepidation. Joy that I was at last being called to serve my
country in open battle, tempered with a dreadful sensibility of the
peril we were about to enter, for there was not a man in the
brigade who did not understand the danger we would face were we to
charge, alone and unsupported, into the teeth of the Russian
artillery. But we were the death-or-glory boys, and we would show
no fear.

I rode at the head of the 17th, front and centre.
The 11th Hussars were to our left, the 13th Light Dragoons to our
right. Lord Cardigan led the charge, riding ahead of the line.
Nolan, by my side, seemed agitated. We were all keenly aware of the
great Russian batteries ahead, and the banks of guns on either
side, but Nolan’s concerns seemed to run deeper. And to my sudden
surprise, he did what was unthinkable and broke ranks, riding to
overtake Cardigan, waving his sword above his head and shouting.
What he shouted I do not know and will never know, for that was
when the barrage began.

A shell exploded ahead of us, and Nolan’s horse fled
back towards our lines. It was only when he passed me, when I heard
his awful, piercing screams, that I knew he had been fatally
wounded. But I had been trained well, and my personal sorrow at
seeing so great a friend so brutally cut down was not a part of my
duty. We pressed on towards the Russian guns.

I will not write you of the din of battle, of the
roar of the shells and the cries of dying men and horses. It will
do neither me, nor you, nor the country good for me to dwell on the
men I saw shredded by grape, or engulfed in the fires of phlogiston
rounds. I will say only that I do not know how I reached the
Russian lines, only that I reached them. And those few of us who
had survived that gauntlet of fire and iron fell upon the gunners
and the cossacks that rode to support them with a fury that would
make Britannia weep. I saw Garland cut down three men before he
fell, Taylor—bleeding from a dozen wounds—still taking the fight to
the enemy until he was overwhelmed. I did not, at the time, know
how many times I had been struck, or cut, or shot. I knew that I
was in pain, but I knew also that I had a duty to perform. I
pressed through the line, striking blindly to left and to right as
the Russian bear closed in around me. And when at last we were
through, I found that we were alone. The Heavy Brigade had not come
up in support; we were isolated and surrounded. And so we swept
around and retreated.

I do not remember returning to camp, or being taken
down from my horse. I remember lying on a stretcher, bleeding it
seemed from every part of me. I remember being brought by army
airship to the hospital at Scutari, and from there to Mr. Brunel’s
remarkable new facility at Renkioi. My legs, it transpired, had
been ruined by shot and sabre. My arms had fared a little better,
although a deep cut to my left had severed nerves and tendons. At
Renkioi the biometallurgists and neuropneumaticians set about
repairing the damage with their strange and marvellous
contraptions. My arm they fixed with the minimum of
transfiguration, but my legs needed extensive rebuilding. They tell
me that they are now more than fifty percent brass and steel, but
that I shall soon learn to walk again, as effectively as ever I
did. Perhaps more so, they say.

I hope that you are proud of your son, mother. He
has done his duty to Queen and country, and—if God be willing—he
will return to you soon, and then once more to the service of his
nation.

Your loving son,

George

The pertinent material begins here. Previous entries
stricken from court records for reasons of relevance and
security.

Witnesses confirm that the voice on this cylinder is
that of Samuel Hardinge, late of the Department of Aethermantic
Operations and Intelligence. This entry dated 17 January 1858,
London, 4:17 p.m.

. . . final candidate is Captain George England.
17th Lancers. Veteran of Sevastopol. Biometallurgically
reconstructed after Balaclava before returning to his old regiment
and serving with distinction in India. Our aether-scientists are
not certain whether the man’s augmentations will make him more or
less suitable as a candidate for the program, but all the records
suggest that he is both an excellent physical specimen—injuries
notwithstanding—and that he shows an unswerving willingness to give
of himself in service to his country.