But even though there were far fewer wounded men, the hospital was almost as full as it had been on her first day at the port, only now most of the patients were cholera cases.
If the port of Balaclava was to have a motto, Hope thought it should be ‘Not Enough’. For they finally had beds at the hospital now, and bed pans, bowls and some medicine too, but not enough. They had already enlarged the hospital, using outhouses, sheds and marquees, but there still wasn’t enough room. Every day ships arrived laden with goods, but all too often these goods were not what they needed. Not enough wood for fires or building work. Not enough medicine, not enough doctors, not enough nutritious food.
A large consignment of boots had arrived, but they were too small for most of the men who needed them. There were still precious few tents, and the goods which were desperately needed up at the trenches on the Heights mostly couldn’t be got up there.
Autumn had come, bringing very changeable weather. It could be pouring with rain and very cold for several days in succession, then suddenly the sun would come out again as warm as a summer’s day. As Bennett had predicted, the track up to the Heights, which was the only way to reach the troops, became a mudslide after rain.
Lord Cardigan’s yacht, the
Dryad
, was moored out in the harbour, and he slept on it in luxury while his men huddled in greatcoats in the open. Dr Mackay, a man Bennett had much admired, had died of exhaustion after his heroic efforts to save lives at the battle of Alma.
Bennett and Hope’s knowledge of the progress of the war was all received at second or third hand, for they rarely had a chance to venture out of Balaclava. From the commencement of the troops digging their trenches before Sebastopol, the Russians were firing on them. But it was only on 17 October that the allied army were finally ready to answer the fire. From six in the morning until darkness fell they kept up the barrage of shot and shell on the batteries and forts. The following day a steady stream of wounded were brought down, but many bled to death on the bumpy ride down the track.
They had heard a huge explosion and everyone in Balaclava had rejoiced imagining it was the town walls being breached. But sadly it was a French powder magazine that had been hit, killing forty men, and fifteen guns were lost.
Hope got up and dressed hurriedly, for she knew why Bennett had left for the hospital so early. The previous evening it had been said that 25,000 Russians under the command of the formidable General Liprandi were gathering a few miles from Balaclava, with the intention of seizing back the port.
Balaclava was the sole lifeline of the British army; the food, the ammunition and every item of equipment came through it. But because Lord Raglan could not spare troops to guard it, it was garrisoned only by the 93rd, the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, 100 men from the Invalid Battalion and 1,200 Turks. The cavalry camp was a couple of miles outside the town. But there were now here near enough men to defend it.
It was a misty, cold morning as Hope made her way down to the hospital. When she reached the hospital, as she had expected she found Bennett doing the rounds of patients, checking which ones could be sent on to Scutari.
She could sense his anxiety, even though he turned and smiled at the sight of her. A week ago, in an unguarded moment, he had likened this task to the Judgment of Solomon. He knew that the sea trip and then the appalling conditions at Scutari were likely to kill his patients. But he had no choice, for unless he freed up beds, there would be no room for fresh casualties. If there was a battle today, there would be a huge influx of wounded. If the Russians seized the port, they were all likely to be killed or left to die anyway.
‘I want you to go with this lot,’ he said, waving the list in his hand.
‘No, Bennett,’ she said. ‘I’m staying here.’
‘Do as I say,’ he said curtly. ‘It’s an order.’
‘You are not my commanding officer,’ Hope said with a defiant toss of her head. ‘You’re just my husband, and I’m staying here with you.’
‘Please, Hope.’ His tone was pleading now. ‘I doubt those Cossacks have any respect for women. And I can’t bear to think what they’d do to a pretty one like you.’
‘Then don’t think about it,’ she snapped. ‘Now, which ship will be taking the patients to Scutari?’
Up on the plain above the town the British had built six redoubts in a semicircle to house naval twelve-pounder guns. These were to defend the Woronzoff road which ran from the port up to the Heights, the sole line of communication with the troops up there. The redoubts were manned by Turkish soldiers, and shortly after the first volleys of gunfire were heard down in the port that morning, some of these men, desperate and terrified, came fleeing into the town yelling, ‘Ship, ship!’
Bennett had just finished overseeing the last of the patients on to the ship to Scutari as the Turks appeared, and guessing that the casualties would be enormous as there were only 550 men of the 93rd and 100 Invalids standing between Balaclava and the Russians, he decided that he would borrow a horse and ride up to the plain to get a better idea of how things stood.
The early mist had vanished and by mid-morning the sun had come out hot and strong, giving a clear viewfor miles. As Bennett reined his borrowed horse into a high vantage point to one side of the road into Balaclava, he was staggered by the scene that met his eyes.
Wheeling cavalry, the artillery, Highlanders in their kilts and red coats, all made a glorious and somewhat unreal spectacle. The air was so still that he could hear the clink of sabres, the champing of bits, and shouted orders as clearly as if he were down there with them.
To anyone looking down on the plain, which was some three miles long and two miles wide, surrounded by hills, it looked flat, but in fact there was what they called back in England a ‘hog’s back’ running down the centre. This created two valleys, and it was clear to Bennett that the troops in one valley couldn’t see or hear those in the other.
In the north valley a huge square of Russian cavalry was slowly advancing, while the British cavalry were motionless in their saddles in the south valley, and the two sides were oblivious to the other’s presence.
Lord Raglan and his entourage of commanding officers up on the high ground had a perfect viewof the whole plain, but Bennett quickly realized that they were not aware the troops couldn’t see one another, and in fact they had selected a dangerous command post.
Bennett glanced over towards the small group of Highlanders who held a defensive position to prevent the Russians taking Balaclava and a tremor of fear ran down his spine. Five hundred and fifty men were just not enough, even if they were commanded by Sir Colin Campbell who, it was said, was one of the finest officers in the entire British army. He had ordered his men to lie in a line two deep, a difficult position for anyone to maintain, especially when they came under fire.
As Bennett watched, all at once a body of some four squadrons of the Russian force broke away from the main group and began galloping over the central hillocks towards the Highlanders.
Bennett watched unbelievingly as Sir Colin Campbell calmly rode along that thin line of men and his order made Bennett’s blood run cold.
‘Men, remember there is no retreat from here,’ he told them. ‘You must die where you stand.’
Bennett’s heart was in his mouth, not just because those pitifully few men were being urged to give their lives for their country, but because they were all that stood between the formidable Russian force and Balaclava. If the base camp was taken by the Russians, the war would be lost too, and tens of thousands would be killed – civilians, the sick and his precious Hope too.
He knew that if he were in the Highlanders’ boots, he would run just as fast as the Turks had earlier, for it seemed impossible that they could summon the nerve to hold their ground, much less vanquish the enemy.
But as Bennett watched the Russians come on, all at once he realized they were not aware that the hillock they were approaching was occupied by British soldiers. Suddenly the Highlanders sprang up like Jack-in-the-boxes. Having been told they were to die, it was clear they were not going to sell their lives cheaply, for they faced the enemy steadfastly and aimed their guns to kill.
Bennett held his reins ready to flee, for it looked inevitable that this was going to become a massacre. He could scarcely bear to look, yet he was entranced and staggered by the sight of the stalwart Highlanders firing calmly and accurately without any apparent fear for their own safety.
Maybe it was that cool courage, coupled with their fearsome appearance in kilts and red coats, that made the Russians waver at the second volley of fire; but they were wavering, and the Highlanders sensed it, moving forward, clearly eager to engage in hand-to-hand fighting.
Sir Colin Campbell’s voice rose up loud and stern. ‘Ninety-third, ninety-third! Damn all that eagerness!’
The Highlanders steadied, another volley was fired, and then to Bennett’s awe and surprise the Russians wheeled and withdrew back in the direction of the main cavalry.
The Scotsmen cheered and whooped, the victorious sound bringing a lump to Bennett’s throat. Goose-pimples came up over his whole body and he had to wipe away tears of emotion, for he could not imagine anything more courageous than what he’d just seen. This was heroics on the grandest of scales, something he hoped he’d live to tell his children and grandchildren about.
Bennett couldn’t stay to see any further heroics, for he could see the ambulance carts being loaded and he would be needed to tend the casualties. But for the time being Balaclava was safe.
It was to be a day of incredible valour. General Scarlett of the Heavy Brigade, with 500 of his troopers, was on his way to support Sir Colin Campbell’s men, but his route took him straight across the front of the advancing Russian cavalry coming down the hill towards him.
The Russians were 3,000 or more strong, yet despite the odds against him, Scarlett sounded the charge and tore like hell into the enemy with the Irish Inniskillings yelling like banshees.
Those who were watching from the safety of the Heights reported back later that the British had disappeared into the vast mass of Russians, and they expected them all to be annihilated. Yet among the seething grey-uniformed hordes brilliant red coats were observed, swords slashing, thrusting and hacking in the sunshine.
Then a second line of British came, wild with battle rage, yelling ferociously as they too launched themselves into the fray.
Finally, on fearing all men would be lost, Lord Lucan ordered in the 4th Dragoon Guards. They came crashing into the mêlée on the flank, and all at once the Russians swayed, rocked and suddenly fled.
Bennett was back with Hope in the hospital when they heard the cheers, and they assumed the battle was over for the day, and that any moment the carts of wounded would arrive.
They began to arrive within the hour. Once again it was a revisiting of Hope’s first day at Balaclava as stretcher after stretcher was carried in, soon overflowing into the surrounding tents and outhouses and on to the quay. Bennett and the other surgeons moved methodically among them, amputating where necessary, removing pieces of shell and stitching sabre wounds.
Hope, who worked wherever she was needed most, giving water, cleaning wounds, cutting fabric to expose wounds, was astounded how even badly, often mortally, wounded men could be so cheerful and optimistic. When they said the British had the Russians on the run, she believed them.
The triumphs of the morning soon turned to shock and horror that afternoon, however, when the news arrived of the disastrous charge of the Light Brigade.
Further cowardly Turks fleeing to the safety of the port were the first indication something had gone badly wrong. It appeared that Lord Raglan had seen the Russians attempting to seize English guns from the abandoned redoubts and had ordered the Light Brigade to take action.
Why Lord Cardigan led 700 of his men straight into an ambush of the Russians who had earlier fled from the Heavy Brigade, no one understood. Bennett, having noted the two valleys on the plain earlier and how they obscured the vision of the soldiers in the field, thought that was to blame. In the weeks that followed, all kinds of theories were bandied about and the blame was attributed mainly to Lord Lucan. Yet the most logical explanation was that Cardigan couldn’t see the Russians waiting in the north valley of the plain from his position, or that he had misinterpreted the order he had been given. But whatever the true reason, the result was absolute carnage, for the Light Brigade rode into a three-sided trap without escape. Russian gunfire rained down on them.
Only 195 men came back, including Lord Cardigan, and some 500 horses were killed.
Back in the hospital, everyone was too busy dealing with the casualties of the morning to take much notice of the gunfire. It was some time after the charge, which had only lasted twenty minutes, that a messenger arrived with the devastating news. By the time the wounded were brought down into the town it was late afternoon, already growing dark and cold.
A handful of the men, swaying in their saddles, rode down on their horses despite pieces of shell embedded in their limbs. A few staggered in on foot, supported by other soldiers, and the most seriously wounded came on carts. Their faces were blackened by smoke and smeared with blood, the once vivid colours of red or blue jackets were dull with dirt and more blood, tattered and singed by bullets.
For the second time since she’d arrived in the Crimea, Hope felt like running away. The little hospital was already full to bursting point, the air was thick with the stench of blood, and the moaning of those in agony was too dreadful to bear. She had already seen over thirty men die from their wounds that day. Most of them were very young, mere boys of eighteen or nineteen, and it was wrong that they should have died for a cause they didn’t even fully understand.
But as she stood at the hospital door, watching the lights from the quay glistening in the water of the bay, she knew she would have to find the strength from somewhere, as long as Bennett remained working.