The Gold Seekers (42 page)

It had been Nolan, William recalled, who—one evening in mess, when he had imbibed the 11th brandy somewhat freely—had bestowed the uncomplimentary nicknames of Lord Look-on and the Noble Yachtsman on the cavalry’s two commanders. It was, perhaps, deserved in Lord Cardigan’s case, since, disliking the rigors of camp life, he spent much of his time on board his private yacht in Balaclava Harbor. Lord Lucan, however, had been left with little choice, save to obey the orders he had been given by his commander in chief—and as divisional commander, he would have been held accountable had he sent the cavalry into action and suffered heavy casualties as a result.

And whatever Nolan might think of them, neither nobleman lacked courage. It was an unfortunate fact that—as he had told Jenny in one of his letters—relations between them

had always been strained; it was even claimed that they had not spoken to each other during the past thirty years. They did not do so now, except when necessity demanded that they should, and Cardigan’s invitations to dine on board the luxurious yacht Dryad had, apparently, never once included his immediate superior.

Private Bubb tucked the boots under his arm, picked up William’s empty mug, and drew himself smartly to attention. “They do say, sir,” he offered, his expression carefully blank, “as Sir Colin Campbell’s ordered the Ninety-third to sleep in line tonight, under arms, an’ that he’s keeping the Turks at their guns. But I can’t rightly swear to the truth o’ that, seem’ it were only what one o’ our younger lads ‘card at second ‘and like. Will that be all, sir?” Receiving William’s nod of assent, he pulled back the tent flap and vanished into the misty darkness.

Left alone, William moved the flickering oil lamp nearer and picked up his pen. If Bubb were right about the impending Russian attack, it would be well to write his letter now, so as to make sure it was ready to be added to the post corporal’s bag in the morning, for he did not want Jenny Broome to find him remiss as a correspondent. And certainly he did not want her to forget him, for since his arrival in the Crimea, she had been constantly in his thoughts … at times almost obsessively so.

He wrote busily for more than an hour, first replying to points she had raised and then attempting to describe the position occupied by the British forces in general and the cavalry division in particular, adding a small sketch map to illustrate his meaning. If such warlike matters were not of interest to Jenny, then probably her brother Johnny, who was a newspaperman, would appreciate the description.

The oil lamp was smoking and close to extinction by the time he had filled two closely written pages. Stifling a weary yawn, William read through the final page, fearing, as he did so, that Jenny might find it dull and lacking in feeling.

We are under canvas in the plain of Balaclava, at the head of what is termed the South Valley, with the infantry divisions and the naval siege batteries on a plateau

THE GOLD SEEKERS

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behind us—known as the upland—which overlooks our objective, the town and naval base of Sebastopol.

From there a heavy bombardment is kept up on the town, often for twenty-four hours at a time. But Sebastopol has been substantially reinforced and its defenses have been rebuilt since we caught our first glimpse of it after our victory at the Alma. Now the Russians reply from forts and from the remaining ships of their fleet in the harbor, which is heavily defended by a number of great stone-built forts at the entrance. These defy all attempts by our fleets to penetrate the harbor, and both our navy and the French have suffered many casualties in a brave effort to battle their way in.

Another act of folly, William recalled grimly, had been the order to pit wooden-walled ships against those mighty Russian sea defenses. Heroically though the seamen had worked their guns, they had made virtually no impression on the immensely thick stone walls and casemated batteries of Fort Constantine, which had been the British fleet’s objective.

He yawned again and, his eyes smarting from the smoke of the lamp, read on.

Here on the plain, where our cavalry division camp is situated, two parallel valleys—North and South—are divided by a narrow ridge of high ground, known as the Causeway Heights. The causeway carries a road, which I have marked on my sketch map in its Russian name— the Woronzoff Road. This issues into a gorge, leading to the coast and the port of Balaclava, from where all supplies for the siegeworks must be taken, after being landed from the ships.

William frowned. It was an infernally dull description, he decided, and not very easy to follow, although perhaps the sketch map would take it clear, should Jenny be sufficiently interested in it—and in him—to take the trouble to study it. He had made the sketch a couple of days before, from the upland, when he had been sent to Lord Raglan’s command post in a farmhouse on the ridge overlooking the plain, from

which it was possible to see quite clearly across both valleys, but … His frown deepened. Depicted thus, the causeway appeared flat, whereas from the cavalry division camp, its grassy slope effectively obscured all sight of the North Valley.

Well, it would have to do; he was too tired, and the light too dim, to make another sketch. He rubbed his red-rimmed, watering eyes and read on.

The rest of the letter consisted of an account of his daily doings, which were dull enough—or they seemed so, when set down on paper. He had no stirring deeds of valor to report; as Bubb had reminded him, the Light Cavalry’s record until now had been less than glorious, their losses not in battle but resulting from cholera and exposure, and— William gave vent to an exasperated sigh.

Campaigning in India had been very different from this static warfare. Here all that mattered were the great siege guns on the upland and the supplies of ammunition that must reach them daily, even if fodder for the cavalry’s horses had to be left to rot on Balaclava’s congested wharves. William was conscious of a tightening of the throat as he remembered the first battle in which, as a young cornet newly arrived in India, he had fought. His regiment, the 3rd Light Dragoons, had charged the Sikh guns at Moodkee, carrying all before them to a historic victory, won against all the odds. True, they had lost almost half their number, killed or wounded, but Edward Nolan had cited their charge as an example of what, properly commanded, light cavalry could achieve. And they could do it again, Nolan had asserted, granted the chance and a commander worth his salt, in place of the overcautious Lord Look-on.

Controlling an almost irresistible desire to close his eyes and drift into sleep, William drew the sketch map toward him and added the symbols denoting the redoubts on the Causeway Heights, which, in the light of what Bubb had told him, had assumed a new importance.

There was one, separated from the other five, on a hillock at the far end of the South Valley, near the village of Kamara, armed with six-pounder naval guns and held by the Turks—

Canrobert’s Hill, it was called. William’s frown returned as he penned in the name.

If the Russians did attack, marshaling their forces in the Chernaya Valley, they might well catch the Turks on Canrobert’s Hill unprepared and, yes, unsupported, unless some, at least, of the cavalry could reach them in time. Certainly none of the infantry divisions could do so; the descent from the upland to the plain was an arduous one, taking at best more than two hours.

He folded the sketch and returned his attention to the letter, to swear softly as he read its final paragraph. It was not the kind of letter he had intended to write to Jenny Broome. The devil take it, he told himself … since meeting her again in Sydney on his last leave, he had been haunted by her memory; her small, sweet face had come to him all too often in his dreams, and he longed to see her again. Not by one word in this parody of a letter had he given her any hint of his feelings, yet suddenly he was acutely aware of what she meant to him—she, more than anyone else.

He had known other women—some he had known intimately and made love to, but … Jenny Broome had a quality, a charm no other woman had held for him. Sitting there in the cold, lamplit darkness of his tent on the Balaclava Plain, he let his thoughts wing back to the time he had spent with her in Sydney, remembering the picnic from which, on account of her mother’s illness, she had returned prematurely. He had wanted then to tell her that he was falling in love with her, but it had not been possible, and the ball to which he had invited her, given by the garrison regiment, had been marred by her mother’s death. Because she was in mourning, she had had to refuse, and he had had to go back to India without telling her how he felt. And in Calcutta, on his return, there had been the widow of a company nabob, with whom he had drifted into an affair he had not really wanted and had not enjoyed.

Now, however, it was as if suddenly he had a premonition of what was to come, and his heart quickened its beat. Picking up his quill, William wrote the words he had not said when he had left Jenny at the door of her parents’ house in

Elizabeth Bay—the words scrawled, crisscrossing the lines of those he had already written, because he had no more paper.

“I love you, Jenny—I love you with all my heart. Wait for me, I beg you, for I have had my fill of war and soldiering. When this is over, I’ll come home. Please wait until I come to you.”

He added his name, folded and sealed the letter, and, leaving it ready for Bubb to take to the post in the morning, gathered his blanket around him and, not troubling to undress, flung himself onto his camp bed, to fall almost instantly asleep.

The cavalry division turned out, as usual, an hour before daybreak, in accordance with Lord Lucan’s practice of inspecting them at this hour. Lord Cardigan, on the plea of an attack of dysentery, had slept late on board his yacht, and in his absence, command of the Light Brigade devolved on Lord George Paget, to whom William, this morning, was acting as aide.

The inspection over, the men started to walk their horses back to the lines to be watered and fed, grumbling in low voices, for the early morning stand-to was unpopular with the entire division. Lord Lucan led his small cavalcade in the direction of the Turkish-held positions on the Causeway Heights, and when Lord George indicated his intention of accompanying the divisional commander, William fell in at the rear.

It was still dark and cold, and a thick mist swirled and eddied about them as they trotted down the valley toward the most easterly of the redoubts, on Canrobert’s Hill. Despite the previous night’s premonition and Bubb’s warning, William had no sense of impending disaster, yet as the first gray light of dawn brightened the eastern sky, he saw, with a sudden quickening of his pulses, that something unusual was afoot. Two flags, instead of the single crescent and star, flew from the flagstaff behind the redoubt, and uncertain of what this signified, he was about to draw attention to it when his commanding officer also observed the strange signal.

Reining in his horse, Lord George Paget pointed in the direction of the flagstaff and exclaimed in a puzzled voice, “Hullo—there are two flags flying. What does it mean?”

One of Lord Lucan’s aides replied, “Surely, my lord, it means that the enemy is approaching!”

“Are you sure—” Lord George began, only to break off as his question was dramatically answered when a gun in the redoubt opened fire. It was met by a thunderous cannonade from the high ground to the right, and a round shot came hurtling toward the little group of officers, to pass between the legs of William’s horse.

Lord Lucan took in the situation, after a moment of shocked dismay, and started to issue swift orders. An aide was sent galloping back to warn Sir Colin Campbell and the 93rd at Kadikoi, and a second dispatched to Lord Raglan’s farmhouse headquarters six miles away, urgently requesting infantry support. As the mist began to disperse, a very large body of Russian infantry could be seen, advancing in two columns to the south of the Woronzoff Road. They were preceded by skirmishers, with cavalry on both flanks, escorting their guns.

William, hard put to it to calm his startled horse, dismounted to make sure that the animal was unhurt, and above the now-continuous thunder of gunfire, he heard Lord Lucan say bitterly, “Since Lord Raglan failed to act on the communication sent to him yesterday by Sir Colin Campbell and myself, and since he has left us here altogether without support, I consider it our first duty to defend the approach to the port of Balaclava. The Turks will have to do the best they can—we are in no position to help them, and they have their guns. The defense of the harbor will, of course, depend on my cavalry, so that I shall be compelled to reserve them for that purpose.”

When the commander of the Heavy Brigade, General Scarlett, started to voice a protest, Lucan shrugged. “I will see whether I can accomplish anything by a feint—we may, at least, delay them. Lord George, I am placing the Light Brigade in reserve. General Scarlett, you will mount your brigade at once, if you please. I shall require one dragoon regiment to escort two troops of the horse artillery— Maude’s and Shakespeare’s—as soon as you can get them mounted.”

“De Lancey,” Lord George Paget snapped, “back to our lines as fast as you can ride! Give the alarm and get our men mounted—then rejoin your regiment!”

William needed no second bidding. He swung himself into the saddle and was away at breakneck speed across the rutted grass of the plain.

Ten minutes later, Paget’s order delivered, William sat his mount and watched as the trumpeters sounded “Boot and saddle!” and the men responded with a rousing cheer that set the hot blood coursing in his veins.

It was true that their divisional commander had decreed that the Light Brigade was to be held in reserve, but if the Turks were overrun and failed to hold the enemy’s advance, then it could not be long before they, as well as the Heavies, were called into action.

And the Turks were being overrun. Even as the two troops of horse artillery galloped forward, unlimbered, and opened fire, an unruly mob of Tunisian auxiliaries could be seen leaping and scrambling down the slope from Canrobert’s Hill, their brief resistance at an end. After them came a troop of Cossacks in relentless pursuit, hacking the Turks down as they vainly sought escape, while Russian infantry, in close-packed ranks and with bayonets fixed, advanced on the vacated redoubt and swiftly occupied it. Within a few minutes they had turned the abandoned guns around and were firing them into the next redoubt. From there, too, after replying with one ragged volley of musketry, the Turks fled with shrill screams of terror. As before, the Cossacks cantered after them, with lances and pistols used to terrible effect, and few escaped the savage slaughter.