Читать книгу To Do and Die - Patrick Mercer - Страница 8

‘Now look, yous …’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken held the heavy rifle across his waist and pointed at the graduated rear-sight, ‘… it's no good buggerin' about adjustin' the bloody thing if you don't know how far away the target is, so you've got to be able to estimate the range accurately, or it's all a waste of fuckin' time.’

The Grenadier Company gaggled about him as the sun beat down on the eighty-odd men, all of whom swiped to keep the flies out of their eyes, ears and noses. They had been waiting in Varna on the west coast of the Black Sea for a fortnight or more whilst the politicians decided what to do next, nobody quite knowing whether they would be sent inland to help the Turks on the Danube or embark on their ships again.

‘Luff, tell us how we estimate range.’ McGucken picked the boy out from the rear of the crowd where his attention had begun to wander. He was looking at the scorched, brown Bulgarian fields and hedges where they stretched down to the sea and thinking how different it all was from the green of Hayling Island.

‘At five hundred you can make out colours; at four hundred limbs and the head become distinct; at three hundred features become visible and at two hundred all details can be discerned.’ Luff intoned the rubric that they had all been taught.

‘Good, well done Luff; why were you being so fuckin' thick about things in Turkey?’ McGucken had almost despaired of Luff and some of the others when the fleets had paused in Scutari where the Allied forces had been gathered before the voyage into the Black Sea. It was there that the new Minié rifle had been served out to most of the regiments and the first tentative shots been tried against paper targets pinned to wooden billets. Instructors had been sent from the units who had received the weapons first, amazing everyone with the accuracy and penetration of the half-inch-wide lead bullets that were so very different from the round balls of the old, smooth-bored muskets which they carried up until then.

‘Dunno, Colour-Sar'nt… just difficult to get the hang of, ain't it?’ replied Luff, who had struggled more than most to understand that the new weapon was so very different from the one that they had been used to. He'd been quick enough to understand that the bullet spun and was more accurate due to the rifling, that it dropped in quite a steep curve the further it flew and that you had to allow for this by tinkering around with the iron sight at the rear of the barrel. But he and several others had a real problem with estimating range.

‘Aye, well just think about what you repeated to me, don't just chant it like some magic bloody Papish prayer: understand it and keep practising.’ McGucken discovered that the boys from the land and the plough had picked the idea up quite quickly, whilst townies like Luff had taken much longer to grasp things. So, he'd taught them the words of the manual by rote, but whether they understood it properly was quite a different matter.

‘S'pose that pair yonder were Russian infantry …’ McGucken pointed across the fields to two elderly peasants who were digging in a field, ‘… what would you set your sights at to hit them, Luff?’

The boy held his hand up to shade his eyes against the sun, revealing a great wet patch at his armpit. The troops had been allowed to parade for training in their grey shirtsleeves to spare them from the heat and to save their already shabby scarlet coatees from further wear. They had just received the order to cease shaving as well, apparently in an effort to save water, but as far as McGucken was concerned, it had just given the men an excuse to let their smartness and turnout drop off even further.

‘'Bout four 'undred, I'd say.’ A general mutter of agreement greeted Luff's estimate. ‘But are we ever goin' to shoot at any bastard, or will we just arse about 'ere gettin' cholera, Colour-Sar'nt?’

‘A very good question, son.’ McGucken had been having just the same discussion in the Sergeants' Mess last night. They had arrived in Bulgaria fully expecting to be in action alongside the Turks in no time at all, but they had done nothing for weeks now except train and move camp every time there was another outbreak of cholera. Some said the Russians had surrendered and the whole shooting match would be packed on its boats and sent home, but the papers insisted that the Allies would sail against the Russian ports in the north. ‘I reckon we'll be off for Sevastopol once the high-ups can get the politicos to make their minds up.’

‘See … vas … tow … pol…’ The men played with the word, liking its exotic sound.

‘Where's that then, Colour-Sar'nt?’ Luff voiced all of their thoughts.

‘Couple of hundred miles that way.’ McGucken pointed out to sea where three French men-of-war smoked past. ‘It's the Russians' great big bastard anchorage for their fleet and the papers say that there's no point in comin' this far an' then goin' home without a fight. So, you'd best learn how to estimate range then, hadn't you?’ There was a tepid hum amongst the men.

‘Now, how far away's that haystack … Shortt?’ McGucken was as bored with the lounging about as his men were, but as he looked around their downy, sunburnt faces and their earnest, furrowed brows he wondered just how many of them would live to tell their mothers and fathers what a Russian infantryman really looked like.

‘They've got to land us south of Sevastopol, it makes no sense to go to the north.’ Carmichael seemed very sure of himself as Eddington and both his subalterns pored over a chart showing the coast of the Crimea.

‘Well, you'd think so. All these rivers that flow into the Black Sea will be perfect defensive positions and the captain tells me that there's no really suitable beach much south of here.’ Eddington's manicured finger hovered on the map just south of Eupatoria, thirty miles at least from the Allies' target, Sevastopol. Like a stepladder, the rivers bisected the coastal plain, each one a major obstacle to the 60,000-strong French and British army.

‘But if we go to the south we'll be that much closer to Sevastopol and we might catch Russ off guard?’ Morgan saw how unlikely that was from the deep, coloured contours of the map. There were only a couple of points where a landing from the sea would be possible and those, according to the chart, were well-established ports.

‘Closer, certainly, but we would have to force either Balaklava or Kamiesch and the Russians will have made that very difficult indeed. No, the captain reckons we're for the north – that's where the only suitable beaches are – and then we'll have to tramp down parallel to the sea. There's so little cavalry that we won't be able to go too far inland and the colonel says that if we do land northwards then the plan is to hug the coast. That way we've got the fleets to victual us and we can march under the lee of their guns. The only question is, who gets to march closer to the ships?’ Eddington looked at the pair with a slight smile.

‘It'll be the bloody French, pound to a penny. They'll turn us inside out every chance they get, you see. My uncle, sir George Cathcart, says his people almost came to blows with them in Turkey.’ Carmichael was never slow to remind people of his connections, nor to criticize the French. Only the Turks had proved more unpopular with the troops than the French so far and all but a handful of the officers followed the fashion of berating Britain's ally whenever they could.

‘Yes, my father got a boatload of 'em in Bantry back before Waterloo. They said they were ship-wrecked but they turned out to be spies. Hanged the lot.’ Morgan could hear the relish in his father's words as his only bit of real service against Napoleon was rehearsed time and again during long dinners at home.

‘Just be glad that the French are with us this time, they've had much more recent experience of campaigning than most of us and what I've seen of them so far looks pretty businesslike. We'll see how they fight, but my father learned to respect them in Spain and at Waterloo, so hold your scorn for the Russians.’ Eddington could be infuriating, sometimes.

The fleets surged on across the Black Sea. A pall of black coal-smoke hung with them on the following breeze, the steamers deliberately slowing to stay abreast of the sailing ships. The coast of the Crimea was distantly sighted, a lookout in the masts far above assuring the captain that what they could see was Sevastopol.

‘And if we can see them …’ Eddington snapped shut his glass, ‘… then they can see us. We must be heading north, and there'll be no surprise for Russ. So, gentlemen, we land tomorrow and must be ready to fight. Inspect every weapon, every round of ammunition and take a good look at feet, socks and the men's shoes. Colour-Sar'nt, please check that Braden has enough leather and nails with him for running repairs once we're ashore.’ Eddington had gone over all these fine details a dozen times already, Braden, the company's cobbler having his scraps of leather and hobnails scrutinized more times in a week than in the last five years.

As dawn broke, there it was. The armada rode at anchor almost a mile off shore, gazing at a low line of dunes topped with grass in a crescent-shaped bay that the chart told them was known as ‘Kalamita’. The lead-grey sky loured over a scene that few would forget for the rest of their days and when the papers subsequently dubbed it ‘Calamity Bay’, most agreed.

‘Just remind me what our good captain had to say about this wretched landing?’ Major Hume had squelched up to the Grenadier Company's three officers as they lay in the grass-studded sand-dunes. ‘“Still as a mill-pond” and “dry as a bone” wasn't it?’

The captain of the Himalaya had told them all how smoothly the landing would go and how they would all be ashore in no time, simply stepping from the improvised landing rafts onto the beach.

‘Are all your men as soaked as I am, Eddington?’ Hume had been scurrying about between the companies checking the state of equipment and ammunition at the commanding officer's request.

Eddington's company was amongst the last to land and, like the others, they had first been thrown about by a boisterous surf and then floundered into three feet of chilling water, despite everything the navy had promised. Now they all sat amongst the tussocks, boots off, wringing the salt water out of their socks.

‘To the skin, sir.’ Eddington had produced a towel from his haversack with which he was rubbing vigorously at his feet. He'd undone the straps that held his trousers tight below the instep of his boots, now the bits of leather and tiny buckles flailed around his ankles. ‘But Colour-Sergeant McGucken had the presence of mind to tell the men to keep their pouches above their heads, so our ammunition should be sound; he's just checking it now.’

In the background McGucken, apparently totally unaffected by the ordeal by brine, stalked amongst the sprawling troops reminding the sergeants to inspect every man's supply of wax-paper-wrapped rounds.

‘You're lucky to have McGucken, you know, Eddington.’ Hume looked over as the Scot went quietly about his business.

‘I know, sir, we got a good deal when he came to us from the Thirty-Sixth,’ Eddington replied.

‘He was particularly good on the rafts, sir.’ Morgan interjected. ‘Most of the boys were bloody terrified of the waves but he just took the rise out of them and kept them calm.’ Morgan had been surprised how scared the men had been of the sea, until he realized how few of them could swim. Every officer had been taught the gentlemanly art of swimming just as surely as they had learnt to ride a horse, but other than for some farmers' boys, it was a skill that few of the soldiers had mastered.

‘Yes, he's a good fellow,’ Hume continued, ‘I have to say, if any of the boys had been dunked with sixty-five pounds of shot and kit on their backs, I don't suppose we'd have seen them again – not alive at least. Now, let me know when you're ready to move, Eddington, I'm amazed that we've had no interference from the Russians thus far,’ Hume added before moving off to have much the same conversation with Number Six Company close by.

As the 95th had come ashore, they had seen the Rifles in the sand-dunes above the beach, their dark green uniforms bobbing about the rough grass on guard against an expected counter-attack, whilst the French skirmishers had done the same, their bugles shrieking incessantly in a way that was to become all too familiar to the British. But only a few seedy Cossacks on hairy ponies had looked on until the first Allied troops appeared – providing just enough excitement to distract the men from their sopping clothes.

‘Dear God, it's starting to rain, now …’ Eddington looked up at the dark, Crimean skies, ‘… as if we're not wet enough already. Right, you two, I want sentries posted and the men in their blankets as soon as we're stood down by the adjutant. Don't let the men sit around yarning, it'll be a hard day tomorrow and they'll need as much sleep as possible.’

The two subalterns saluted and moved off to join their men. Soon, with their weapons piled in little pyramids, the troops were bedded down, all of the regiment's seven companies stretched next to each other. Morgan looked at the blanket-wrapped forms and was reminded of one vast farrow of grey piglets. Nobody was going to get much sleep with the enemy to hand and the rain setting-in, he thought, but at least they looked tidy, a sergeant's dream.

Men settled and sentries posted, Morgan flung himself down next to the spitting camp fire that the servants had managed to light for the officers. Keenan and the other batmen were stirring at a stew made from the pork that everyone – officers and soldiers – had been issued before they disembarked, the smell of which seemed like ambrosia. The light played off their faces. Collars turned up against the wind and wet, soft caps pulled down hard, from almost every pair of lips jutted either pipe or cigar. Keenan had adopted the old soldiers' wheeze of smoking his little, black, clay pipe with the bowl pointing down away from the rain, bits of tobacco stuck to his stubbly lips.

‘Dear God, I shall never be able to wear this in Dublin again.’ Morgan, like all the other novices to war, was doing as he was told and wearing ‘Review Order’, his best set of everything. His swallow-tailed, scarlet coatee and heavy, bullion wings had made a serious hole in the Morgan family coffers and he could remember how he was made to twist and turn around for Father and the Staff at Glassdrumman in his new regimentals, self-conscious and suspicious of their smiles. He wore those very clothes now, strapped about with belts, bottles and bullets and topped by a soaked greatcoat.

‘The men seem happy enough now we're off that wretched ship.’ Carmichael, predictably, had the slimmest, most expensive of cheroots in his mouth. Even the smoke slid stylishly onto the breeze.

‘I'd be a damn sight happier for them if they could get a decent night's sleep, though. The bloody cholera will be back unless we keep their strength up. Any sign of it, either of you?’ Captain Eddington was as much checking that his officers had done their jobs as showing concern for the men of his company.

The men's health had been much better at sea, but despite the kindness of the captain and the crew, it had become fashionable to complain about them, the ungainliness of the ship and about all matters nautical. Carmichael had been amongst the most vocal.

‘Carry out your normal rounds, you two, better make it every two hours this close to the Russians, and which one of you wants the stand-to slot?’

‘I'll do it, sir.’ Morgan knew that if the men slept little that night then the officers would sleep even less. It would be far better to be supervising the dawn ritual of every man standing-to-arms, kit packed, weapons cleaned and ready, than trying to get a last few minutes in drenched blankets.

He was right. Both subalterns took turn and turn about to visit the sentries – all of whom were gratifyingly alert – before rolling themselves up on the ground in an attempt to drift into unconsciousness. But when they rose in the dark just before dawn everyone was stiff, soggy and bug-eyed. They struggled almost gratefully into their belts and equipment, wiping the water off their rifles and checking their ammunition to make sure that the bundles of cartridges had kept dry. For half an hour they waited, poised, ready to fight until daylight was fully there, then they stood down. Damp charges were drawn from barrels, breakfast fires were lit, little domestic scenes sprang up everywhere.

The men's morning bacon was just starting to sizzle when two shots rang out. Hard in front of where the men were cooking and inside the chain of outlying sentries, the bangs had men scuttling for their kit and weapons, sergeants and corporals shouting, kettles knocked over, the whole company in a lather.

‘What in Christ's name is going on? Sar'nt Ormond, stop dithering and get the men back to their stand-to positions.’ That was precisely what the Sergeant was doing, but it didn't save him from a tongue-lashing from Carmichael.

‘Beat to arms, Pegg.’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken's crisp order to the drummer seemed to steady Carmichael a little until, it was discovered that the boy was missing. ‘Where's bloody Pegg, has anyone seen him?’ McGucken's voice was already tinged with concern.

‘His drum and kit's here, Colour-Sar'nt’ shouted one of the other drummers who had gone in search of the boy.

‘Just beat to arms then, son, he can't 'ave gone far.’

As the tattoo rolled out, the hubbub in the Grenadier Company's lines soon infected the rest of the regiment. In no time, all of the other companies were standing-to, Colonel Webber-Smith was calling for his horse and the adjutant, the transport ponies were having their bran and oat nosebags snatched away, the buglers taking up the call whilst damp, smoky cooking fires were stamped to embers.

The drizzle had cleared but the light was still not good as the sentries saw two figures, one tall and lean, one small and fat – and weighed down by the hare that he carried by its hind legs – come galloping towards them. Only the scarlet of their coats saved them from a jumpy volley, both pickets having cocked their rifles and brought them to the aim at the sight of movement where only Russians should be.

‘Don't shoot, it's us, Pegg and Luff! What's going on?’ The two hunters breathed hard as the sentries lowered their rifles.

‘God knows. You must have heard them shots over yonder, more or less where you came from?’ A skinny, sallow-faced lad, the senior of the two sentries, eased the hammer of his rifle forward before absently brushing at his running nose.

‘Aye, that was us, just got this.’ Pegg held up the hare: it was almost as big as he was.

‘Well, no fucker knew you was out there, the whole lot's standing-to. Best report to Jock McGucken, he'll skin you sooner than he does that bleeder. Sure there's no Russians out there?’

‘Not that we saw,’ Pegg shouted over his shoulder as the pair trotted guiltily back towards McGucken and wrath.

And wrath they got. There seemed to be no end to the pair's sins. First they had neglected to ask a corporal if they could go out to look for game. On top of that, they'd been half-witted enough not to check out with the same pair of sentries through whom they would return. What did they expect the company to do when they heard shooting to their front? And what about the rest of the regiment? Hadn't they made Captain Eddington and himself look utter fools in the eyes of everyone? Didn't they realize that the company commander, even now, was having a strip torn off him by no lesser mortal than the colonel?

Then, in the name of all that was holy, what would they have done if they met a clutch of bleedin' Cossacks out there just waiting to stick their lances up their fur-framed hoops? How would he have explained that to their mums and, more to the point, Luff was senior enough not to let silly little knobs like Pegg get them all into trouble. They were just downright fuckin' eejits. He was going to rip them a second arsehole, worse, he had a good mind to fuck-them-off-out of the Grenadiers and back to some ‘hat’ company!

McGucken's riftings were known to be impressive. The two privates stood trembling to attention whilst the storm flickered about them. Minute flecks of foam from the Colour-Sergeant's lips landed on their cheeks but they dared not wipe it away, they just stood there, watching the others – amused yet appalled – go about their business. Then the squall seemed to have abated. McGucken paused, eased his leather cross-belts on his shoulders, pushed his bayonet scabbard back against his thigh and drew breath.

They were half hoping that they'd get away with just a bollocking and that the ordeal was over. But then another thought occurred to big Jock McGucken.

‘What the bloody hell did yous pair of clowns use to kill that hare? It wasn't buck-shot, was it?’

‘Yes, Colour-Sar'nt,’ the miscreants muttered.

‘Right, that's it! I've had a gut-load of you! You're on company commander's report for damaging your weapons. Now shag off back to your place of duty and get that pox-ridden rabbit out of my sight!’

With the old, smooth-bored muskets it was quite normal to use buck-shot for killing game, so all the soldiers had brought some pellets with them for just that purpose. The trouble was, the spiral rifling with which the barrel of the new rifle was etched – the very secret of its range and accuracy – was thought to be delicate. Firing even soft lead pellets from it was ordained a sin – though this, Pegg and Luff claimed, had been made far from clear. The only good that might come from the embarrassment of the Grenadier Company, McGucken reasoned, was that the men wouldn't abuse their rifles again.

Company commander's report, though, was not good. Discipline McGucken-style usually resulted in extra duties or fatigues being awarded, tedious but bearable. Being put in front of Captain Eddington – with all his cold authority – was quite another matter for at the very least their records would be spoilt and the possibility of promotion delayed. They might be stopped pay or their ration of spirits, but much worse, now that they were on active service, a flogging was a possibility. It made sense: the officers would want to underline the fact that discipline had to be sharper in the face of the enemy, that things that might be overlooked in barracks were unacceptable in the field.

‘Ever seen a flogging, Luffy?’ Such punishments were almost unknown in the 95th, so it was a fair bet that Luff had no such experience and that its very mystery made the prospect all the worse.

‘No, mate. One of the new draft from the 82nd got twenty lashes couple o' years back, he said. Got busted from lance-jack an' all. He reckons it don't hurt that bad, it's just that you feel such a twot if you yell out with everyone watching.’

The hare had been stuffed into Pegg's haversack as soon as they got back to where they had left their equipment. Now the pair were desperately trying to light a fire. Despite shaving twigs to get finer tinder, the scraps of branches were so wet that everyone had had the devil's own job to get their cooking fires lit. One or two of the older NCOs had lodged bits of lint in their shirt pockets to keep them as dry as possible for the flints and steel. Once their fires were lit, kindling was brought by others and very quickly the whole company was fanning and puffing smokily. Luff and Pegg's episode, though, had ensured that everyone had to start the laborious process again whilst the pair could be sure that no embers would willingly be passed in their direction. Luff had already spent ten minutes with his coatee undone as a windbreak, desperately trying to get a spark to take.

‘This'll never work, the wood's too bleedin' wet.’ Luff continued to strike his tinder box disconsolately.

‘We'll have to use a cartridge.’ Pegg suggested exactly what was on Luff's mind.

‘So long as we don't get caught, we've got enough drama as it is.’ Luff knew that they would have to account for each round.

‘We won't get caught. We'll be firing them at Russ tomorrow then no bugger will know how many we've got.’ Pegg's logic was impeccable. He reached into his pouch, took out a bundle of ten waxy paper tubes and split one open, sprinkling the gunpowder over the twigs. The pair crouched over the pyre, Luff tinkering away until a spark took, the flash making them both jerk back in surprise. But the billow of white smoke drifted right through the knots of kneeling, blowing men who were trying to get their own fires going.

‘Right, you two, I seen that, you've been told not to use cartridges for fires. You're both on report, get your bodies over to the Colour-Sergeant now!’ Sergeant Ormond had seen exactly what happened – he had little choice: Pegg and Luff had little hope. As they trudged over for their second interview with McGucken in half an hour, they could almost feel the bite of the lash.

‘See, I was right, wasn't I?’ Carmichael had indeed been right, the French were marching next to the sea and the support of the ships whilst the British stumped on further inland.

‘Yes, we've been seen off again by the Frogs,’ Morgan answered distractedly. Ever since he was a boy he'd hated long walks. Mother had supposed them to be ‘improving’ and dragged him about with her as she visited the estate cottages apparently impervious to the incessant Cork rain. After her death when he was six – and thoroughly at home astride a horse – he had rarely walked any distance at all, until he'd joined the regiment. Then he'd really learnt to hate walking.

Now the long columns crept forward over gentle, rolling hills that were covered in rough, herby grass whilst larks rose and fussed overhead. Here and there they came across odd, isolated villages of shingled cottages with some larger stone houses dotted about, herds of skinny cows and flocks of hairy goats, but it hardly relieved his boredom.

There were great, leafy vineyards everywhere, heavy with fruit. Carefully cultivated over many acres, the ground was criss-crossed with shallow trenches designed to allow the vines to grow up the wall facing the sun. These were topped with sticks and light poles along which the sinewy vines grew, and on them were bunches of green grapes ripening in the autumn sun. But other than the vines and the odd bit of rough plough, the country was remarkably untouched.

‘Wouldn't you just love to be in the cavalry, now?’ Carmichael had come beetling up from his place at the rear of the company column to pester Morgan.

‘Well, I'd love to have a better horse than Shanks's mare, if that's what you mean, Carmichael, but this fight will be decided by us and the guns, I reckon, not that lot.’ Morgan nodded past the Light Division that marched to their own – the 2nd Division's – left towards the dust cloud that marked the progress of the Cavalry Division. They had been pushed out inland to guard the Allies' flank. ‘Anyway, if I did have a horse I would miss all this grand marching, wouldn't I, and all the fun of dealing with the men and their precious, bloody feet.’ Morgan knew that at the end of the day's march, when weapons had been cleaned but before food could be prepared, there would be the ritual of foot inspection. All those who were not on sentry would sit by their kit, boots and socks off whilst the subalterns peered at spongy soles, poked at burst blisters whilst the sergeants scribbled in notebooks beside them.

‘Do I detect a slight malaise in the house of Morgan? Is the bold officer bored of la vie militaire before it's even started?’ Carmichael could be especially annoying when he put his mind to it, thought Morgan. If he kept his mouth shut perhaps the wretched man would leave him alone.

As roads and tracks were crossed by the horde so gawping villagers gathered, apparently totally unafraid of the invaders. The local people were Tartars, broad-eyed, coarse-haired, accustomed to the hard life of field and plough but occasionally they would glimpse some of the managing classes who dressed and looked more like Europeans. Straddling the same squat ponies as the peasants, everyone expected these folk to hare off at the sight of the Allies. But no, they seemed as content as their workers to watch the columns stamp by, even exchanging some civil words in French with the Staff officers.

For three days this continued with, as each dawn broke, everyone expecting a brush with the foe. But of him there was hardly a sign. Stuck in the middle of the dusty phalanx, the 95th saw nothing of the occasional hussar or light dragoon who came flying into headquarters to report the sighting of a distant cavalry vedette. They just plodded on, any thrill of excitement quelled by the weight on their backs, any spark of anticipation quenched by the pain of their blistered feet. One or two men fell from the ranks clutching at their stomachs, cholera never being far away, but for the most part the troops just trudged, living for the order to raid the precious water from their big, wooden canteens.

There wasn't much help for the sick. If a man fell out with disease or heat-stroke, his comrades would do all that they could before leaving him to be picked up by the regimental surgeon and his Staff. In battle, the band were expected to provide stretcher-bearers, but on the line of march they had music to play so the task of collecting the sick fell to the handful of wives. Only eight of them had been selected by ballot to accompany the regiment and now two were themselves sick. The others, though, had been equipped with locally purchased carts drawn by sturdy little ponies. Just big enough for two casualties and all their weapons and kit, the little traps did a brisk trade amongst the plodding companies.

There had been some heart-wrenching scenes back in England when the wives whose names had not come up in the ballot parted from their husbands but, just as Morgan had predicted to himself, Mary had been one of the lucky ones. Now he glimpsed her only rarely, his throat constricting with desire whenever he saw her dashing about in her cart.

A boy from Thirsk called Almond, never the strongest, had been one of the few sick in the Grenadier Company. On the second day, he'd simply plonked himself down in the grass, grey in the face and all resistance gone, just letting his rifle fall like so much scrap. He'd sat for a few moments whilst his comrades got a bit of water past his lips, but as soon as the NCOs decided that he had to be left for ‘the quack’ he'd just lain down flat, moaning pathetically. Quick on the scene was Mary. Where Almond was grey she was vibrant, where he was weak she was strong. Morgan could see that this life suited her perfectly. Gone was the chambermaid – in her place was a confident, blossoming young woman totally in control, all faux-servility forgotten.

It was the first decent river they'd seen. By the time they got to it the Bulganak was terribly muddied after cavalry, guns and the leading divisions had splashed through. This didn't prevent some of the younger soldiers from trying to fill their canteens with the gritty liquid, NCOs roundly cursing them for greenhorns. But whilst the early autumn sun shone with a ferocity that no one had warned them about in England and burnt necks were sponged in the dark but cooling water, bugles suddenly shrieked from way to the front.

‘Colour-Sar'nt, unless I'm very wrong, the cavalry have got a bite. Get the men out of the river and listen out for our bugles.’ Captain Eddington was right. The cavalry screen had seen Russian horsemen in far greater numbers than ever before lining the ridge to their front and now horse artillery was being called forward to support them. As the 95th cleared the river and fell into disciplined rank, trotting up to where the rest of the 2nd Division was forming, so the horse gunners came pelting into the ford.

From the slightly rising ground, Eddington's company was to get a grandstand view of the little drama that was to be played out in front of them. The men first formed in their three ranks, then they were allowed to stand at ease, then when it became clear that the fighting would all be done by horse and guns, they were allowed to sit down and smoke. In minutes the martial atmosphere had changed to that of a race meeting.