During their honeymoon, Bennett had said the Rifle Brigade might very well be sent out East, and him with it. But he certainly hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. They had barely got back to Winchester when he got his orders that his regiment would be sailing from Portsmouth within a few days.
‘Do you think there really will be a war?’ Hope asked. She was too excited to be worried. Before her honeymoon all she’d known was Bristol, and the only sea she’d ever seen was the Bristol Channel. It seemed incredible that she was now on the steamship
Vulcan
, along with some 800 men under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Lawrence, going down the coast of France and Spain, and then round into the Mediterranean.
‘I sincerely hope it can be averted.’ Bennett frowned with anxiety. ‘It’s forty years since Waterloo, and with the Duke of Wellington dead, I don’t think the unblooded officers who’ll be running this show will have any idea of strategy, or even what it takes to fight a war. The men of the Rifle Brigade are more than competent, crack shots every one, and they’ve had the Kaffir war to sharpen them up. But with aristocratic buffoons like Lord Cardigan and Lord Lucan—’ He broke off abruptly, perhaps feeling it was bad form to denounce cavalry officers.
Hope knew exactly what he was referring to. Lord Cardigan was never out of the newspapers. He was generally thought to be the most arrogant officer in England, and the most stupid. He’d been taken to task for fighting a duel, flogging his men and victimizing other officers, but because of who he was, he’d managed to escape punishment. Lord Lucan was his brother-in-law, a man with so little feeling for humanity that he’d closed down the workhouse in Castlebar in Ireland during the famine to save feeding the poor wretches who had now here else to turn. As the two men hated each other too, it didn’t bode well for the men who would be serving under them.
‘But the men in Winchester were all so wild for a fight,’ Hope said, remembering the excitement in the air at the barracks. She was a complete novice to military life, but she’d been thrilled watching a parade of the Rifles. Their dark green uniforms with black ornamentation had been so smart, their well-polished boots and rifle barrels gleaming in the weak sunshine. All in perfect step, marching proudly to the band, they looked formidable.
‘Maybe,’ Bennett retorted.
‘What is it?’ she asked, aware that when he pursed his lips the way he was doing now, he had something more on his mind.
‘Their wives and children,’ he said tersely. ‘Did you know, Hope, that no provision is made for them while their husbands are away on campaign? That raggle-tailed bunch that ran after the battalion in Portsmouth, trying to keep up to have one last word or kiss from their men before they embarked, will be destitute in a day or two.’
‘But that’s terrible!’ Hope exclaimed.
Bennett nodded. ‘They will have to turn to the parish for sustenance, but as many of those wives are Canadian, they’ll even be denied the small comfort they’d get there, for as you know, you can only receive relief from the parish in which you were born.’
‘You mean they’ll starve?’ Hope exclaimed in horror.
‘Yes, unless they have relatives to turn to, or decide to sell their bodies. What else is there when you have small children to feed?’
Bennett stopped short, not wishing to tell Hope the truth about what he’d seen when he was called upon the previous night.
He’d known of course that it was customary for the wives who wished to go with their husbands to be picked by ballot the night before the regiment went on active service. Only six wives per company were allowed to go, and any who were mothers were ruled out.
He and Hope were asleep when Corporal Mears banged on their door and told Bennett his services were required. Expecting that it would be nothing more than a few stitches needed after a drunken brawl, he told Hope to go back to sleep and slipped out with the Corporal.
But the Corporal led him to the back of a shed, and by the light of their lamp he saw Colour Sergeant John Wagner slumped on the ground in a pool of blood, his throat cut and a razor still in his hand. When Bennett touched him he found him icy cold: he had been dead for some time.
‘He walked out when the ballot was being drawn,’ Mears said. ‘We knew he was upset his wife and child couldn’t go, but we never expected this.’
‘But he was a good soldier with fifteen years’ service,’ Bennett exclaimed in horror.
‘Leaving his wife and child unsupported was just too much for him.’ Mears shrugged. ‘Though heaven knows how he thought this would help.’
‘What is it, dearest?’ Hope asked, breaking into his reverie.
‘Nothing, apart from thinking that this country doesn’t treat its defenders too well,’ Bennett replied, feeling unable to dampen Hope’s excitement at what she thought was going to be a marvellous adventure by telling her what he’d seen the previous night. ‘But you must look around the women on board and approach one to be your servant. All of them will be glad of the extra money, but be sure to pick one who is clean and honest.’
The ship bucked and rolled in the heavy seas all the way down the coast of France and through the Bay of Biscay, and many of the company suffered from sea sickness. But Bennett and Hope stayed remarkably well, and it gave Hope a golden opportunity to mingle with the soldiers and their wives who were sick, taking them first arrowroot and then beef tea to rebuild their strength once the sickness had passed.
Queenie Watson was the woman she picked as her servant, but it wasn’t her cleanliness or honesty which singled her out, only her spirit. Queenie and her rifleman husband Robbie had hatched a plan in case Queenie wasn’t picked in the ballot. Robbie had trained her in drill and she’d spent the last night in the barracks, hair cut short and in full dress uniform, posing as a soldier. She had carried it off well enough to pass muster the following morning and marched with the troops to the ship undetected. It was only once on board that she had been discovered, but fortunately for her Lady Errol, the wife of the Earl of Errol, a Company Commander of the Rifles, was on board. She was being seen off by her two friends, the Marchioness of Stafford and the Duchess of Sutherland. The three ladies had been sympathetic to Queenie’s plight and persuaded the Earl of Errol to let her travel with them.
As soon as Hope had heard about this she’d been sure she would like the woman, and she wasn’t disappointed. Queenie had red hair, sharp features and a defiant manner. Along with her courage, Hope found her to have a great sense of humour. If she had to be stuck in the company of another woman for long periods, she wanted someone who would at least be entertaining.
Six weeks after leaving England, they arrived at Scutari in Turkey on 7 April. They had spent some time in Malta, then moved on to Gallipoli where they received the news that England and France had declared war on Russia.
They still didn’t know where they were ultimately bound for. A newrumour started nearly every day, which could place the action anywhere between Odessa and the Danube. But Hope had already been initiated in some of the hardships that could befall an army wife on a campaign.
In Malta she and Bennett had a room in the barracks, which was only marginally better than the room in Lamb Lane. In Gallipoli it was a tent, sleeping on the hard ground as the camp beds Bennett had brought could not be found. Water had been in short supply, and wood for cooking fires had to be collected and carried long distances to the camp. It was also very hot, and many of the men collapsed.
On the march to Scutari, they were only allowed a mule to carry their baggage, yet some of the officers had a couple of mules and a horse too. But Hope didn’t mind the march, despite the heat. And she wouldn’t have complained about anything anyway for Bennett was now afraid he might be ordered to send her back to Malta in the company of some other officers’ wives, for the duration of the war.
Hope believed that she had already proved herself useful by nursing some of the men who had fallen sick in Gallipoli and dressing a bad cut on Lady Errol’s hand. She hoped that an exception would be made for her but she couldn’t count on it.
The first sight of the Turkish barracks which was to become the headquarters of the Guards and Light Divisions was a favourable one. It was a magnificent building, three storeys high, standing in a courtyard with a tower at each corner. Its position on high ground above a landing stage, the fir trees that surrounded it and the turquoise sea so close by were all very attractive.
A group of riflemen went in for a cursory inspection, but came running out only seconds later looking as green as their uniforms.
They claimed it was the worst thing they had ever seen, and as Bennett was aware that many of these men came from places every bit as bad as Lewins Mead, he realized it would be truly hideous.
As the regimental surgeon he was expected to join the full inspection, and on his return he told Hope that the men hadn’t exaggerated. It was utterly appalling, the courtyard awash with sewage from the blocked sewers beneath the building, a rotting horse’s carcass in the water supply, and the whole building full of every kind of putrefying rubbish, alive with vermin and fleas. There was no question of the Rifle Brigade taking up residence in the building, so a camp was set up far enough away from the barracks so that they couldn’t smell it.
Bennett was not himself that evening. He declined any food, didn’t smile when Hope pointed out that Lord and Lady Errol’s tent was completely transparent with a lamp lit inside, and that the men were strolling by in pretended nonchalance while Lady Errol removed her stays. He didn’t even look at her when she reminded him of the time early in their acquaintance when he’d said he wished he had a chance to camp out.
‘Tell me what is wrong,’ she begged him. ‘Is it concern that I’ll be sent back?’
‘Yes, I am concerned about that,’ he said. ‘But I’d rather you were back in England with my uncle and Alice than stuck in Malta.’
‘But that isn’t all of it?’
‘No,’ he sighed. ‘That filthy barn of a place is to become the main hospital for the campaign. The men can clean it, but we have no beds, blankets or medicine, and I fear that the sick and injured will be filling the place long before those back in England see fit to send us the equipment and provisions we need.’
‘You think there is going to be a battle soon?’ Hope asked. She couldn’t help but feel excited; many of the soldiers had confided in her that they couldn’t wait for the fighting to begin, and they’d infected her with their enthusiasm.
He shrugged. ‘I heard today they are hoping to take Sebastopol in the Crimea.’ He drew a rough map of the Black Sea in the dirt to show her where Sebastopol was. ‘But it’s worrying. I’m only a sawbones, but if I was commanding, the first thing I’d do would be to reconnoitre this place. Few among us can even say where it is, and no one knows how well it is defended. Our men’s uniforms are not suited to this warm climate, I do not think we have enough provisions, we have only a fraction of the medical equipment needed, and so far I have seen nothing that even approaches being suitable for use as an ambulance.’
‘You worry too much,’ Hope said, going over to hug him. ‘Lady Errol told me that we are moving on to a place called Varna soon, and that more troops will join us there. I’m sure all the other equipment will arrive there too.’
On 25 May, the Queen’s birthday, Lord Raglan, the Commander in Chief, arrived at Scutari to reviewthe troops. He seemed very old to Hope, however noble he looked in his plumed hat and gold braid, and he also had only one arm. She’d heard he had been the aide de camp for the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, so she supposed he was the right man to be in charge.
Just a few days later, on the 29th, Hope and Bennett were once again on the move, this time on the
Golden Fleece
bound for Varna in Bulgaria. More troops would be joining them there, along with the French army.
No one had told Bennett to send his wife home, and Lady Errol, with whom Hope had struck up a tentative friendship, said if there was any difficulty she would speak to Lord Raglan himself about it.
‘Doesn’t it look pretty!’ Hope exclaimed as they sailed into the Bulgarian port. While it was true the houses along the quay were ramshackle wooden ones, she thought it very picturesque. But as the ship drew closer to shore, a foul smell wafted out to them and Bennett heaved a sigh.
‘I will never complain about anything in England again,’ he said, bending to whisper in her ear. ‘Not the filth in the streets, the workhouses, the beggars, or even the hospitals. And when we get back there, I’ll find us a cottage by the sea and only treat rich patients.’
The town was fetid and had a slovenly population of some 15,000 Greeks, Turks and Bulgarians who appeared not to notice blocked drains and open cesspits. But the Rifle Brigade disembarked, and with the band playing ‘Cheer, Boys, Cheer’, they quickly marched a short distance out of the town, and made camp above a lake.
In the days that followed Hope sat up on a hill behind the camp and watched a constant stream of troop ships sailing into the harbour and marvelled at all the distinctive regiments. She was particularly entranced by the Highlanders in their tartan kilts, marching to the wail of their bagpipes which was like no sound she’d ever heard before. The infantry in their red coats and white breeches were stunning, but then so were the French in their blue coats. She’d heard a rifleman being rude about the Russian uniform earlier in the day: he said they wore grey, and looked like a pack of rats. He reckoned they would see all the vivid colours of our men and run a mile.
Then, just when she thought the soldiers couldn’t get any more gorgeous, along came the Hussars. It was hard to decide which were the more magnificent, the beautiful sleek chargers, or their riders with their tight cherry-red breeches and blue coats adorned with gold braid.
So many different bands were playing. There was so much shouting, galloping hooves, and equipment being hauled into place. There were gun carriages, bullock carts laden with ammunition, tents and field equipment, mules weighed down with heavy loads, and still more horses, and they stirred up the dust into a storm.