Connects with: Angel of Death, Sepia and Silver, Red Sky at Night & Tragic Silence
Upon the Heights of Alma © July 2020 E. C. Hibbs
Crimean Peninsula
September 1854
I hadn’t been sure of what to expect when we set sail for Crimea, but it was a far cry from what lay before me now. How can a man be so patriotically proud, and yet alarmed by the means of his own country and actions of his superiors? I could hardly bear to think of another thing going wrong.
First, the ships were directed to land at a beach, instead of a port: an open, ill-equipped stretch which had to somehow hold all of us. Then it had taken five full days to ferry everyone to shore. Many were sick with cholera, and their vomit stank out the cabins. Those who had died on the way had been weighted down and given burial at sea. Some had to be buried upon the sand when we landed, in long, shallow mass graves. Then we realised we had no transport, and had to salvage what we could from nearby farms.
It would be hilarious if it were not so serious. The Russians knew we were coming. Even from here, their watch fires lit up the night. They were prepared. How were we supposed to wrest Sebastopol from them in such dire straits as this?
Had the men not been watching, I might have shed a tear as I walked through the camp. It was barely even fitting of that name. The tents were few; those we had were rotted with holes and mould. The hot summer air hung close, the humidity made heavier with rain which drove at us like needles, magnifying the stench of unwashed bodies and fishy odour of diarrhoea. Everywhere I looked, I saw men rolling on the ground, clutching their stomachs in agony, begging for water and morphine. Nurses – British and French – hurried about, tending to the wounds received that day. The Bulganak River flowed nearby, through turf as green and smooth as a racecourse.
But I could only think of another river: the one we would be marching towards in the morning. The Alma.
“You look like you could use a cup of tea, Harry,” Norman said from beside me.
“Or a glass of brandy,” I muttered.
We ducked into a nearby tent. Dirty cots sat in the corners, along with a table and a couple of chairs, which the men had pillaged from a Tatar house near the beach. Norman sat in one of them while I poured a little water for us both.
“You look terrible,” he remarked.
“I feel terrible. Lord Raglan’s never headed so much as a battalion, and now he’s in charge of thirty thousand men? And he thinks we can take Sebastopol in two weeks? Next he’ll be saying pigs can fly.”
“You don’t think we can do it?”
“We can. The question is whether our superiors can. A man can only do his best with what he can, wherever he finds himself.”
I took a swig of the water. It was bottled from the river outside. When the men first saw it, we had rushed down into the valley, desperate to drink. The day had been long and the sun scorching upon our shoulders. All of us were laden with heavy kit and the weight of our rifles; then Lord Lucan and Lord Cardigan had spotted enemy cavalry. We pushed them back and bivouacked for the night, but tension filled the air, like the uncomfortable invisible heaviness which brings forth a storm.
“I think we can do it,” Norman insisted. “We have more men.”
“The Russians have the higher ground.”
“And we have the French with us.”
“We’ve also two brothers-in-law in command who were arguing when we were being fired at,” I said impatiently. “Did you hear about that? It’s lucky we didn’t have any real fighting to do today. But we go into battle tomorrow, and nobody knows what the Hell we’re even doing!”
Norman winced. “I’m sure they’re convening right now.”
I shook my head in frustration. I loved him like a brother, but how could he be so flippant? We were both Lieutenants of the Second Rifle Brigade; twenty-seven years old, not boys anymore. I had held the position for a little longer than Norman, but we knew how the army worked – or, was supposed to work.
“Pray, distract me,” I said. “I need to occupy myself with things other than this.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything.” My eyes roved about the tent like a cat in search of a fly. “How is Henrietta?”
A grin rose at the corner of Norman’s mouth, but disappeared just as quickly.
“She was well the last time I saw her.”
“Is she not in Crimea anymore?” I asked in alarm.
Norman shook his head. “She only came here in the first place to escape the Hungarian Revolution. It’s safer back there now than it is here.”
I grimaced. Norman had travelled these parts a few years ago, and fallen in love with a young Hungarian woman. I had never met her, as this was my first outing to foreign lands, but I had heard his tales often. She had even borne his child, and three months prior, when British involvement loomed over the Russian threat to Eastern Europe, he had married her in an Orthodox church.
He seemed to read my thoughts, because when he spoke again, it was with more of a smile.
“I've got it all planned out,” he said. “I have her address in Buda-Pesth; some boarding house. It’s not much, but it will do for now, until we’re finished here. Once the war is over and we go home, I’ll use my money from the campaign to send for her and little Jonathan, and they shall want for nothing.”
“Do you think she’ll want to come to England?” I asked dubiously.
“It would not be the first time she left Austria-Hungary,” replied Norman. He leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on a distant future. “She already speaks a little English, and I will teach Jonathan myself. We shall return to Liverpool, of course. I’ll buy one of those large new houses in Toxteth, where we can take walks in the park.”
I sighed to myself. He was more naïve than me; and a part of me wished I could indulge it as much as he did. But I was the more pragmatic. I had been ever since we were children, when we met after his family invested in my father’s mines in Wales. I was fortunate enough to have that security, for the business would one day come to me, and I would certainly want for nothing. But Norman’s finances had taken a downward turn the previous year, when his father squandered everything on opium and racehorses.
I wasn’t even certain he could bring Henrietta and their son to England. But I couldn’t bear to dash his hopes on the eve of battle. And I couldn't blame him for wishing to restore his honour.
“How old is he now, your boy?” I asked instead.
“Almost one,” said Norman proudly. “He’ll be a beautiful young man, I know it already.”
“If you do say so yourself,” I smirked.
“I do! Wait until you see him! His face is like something from a Richmond painting, even at this age. It’s a little funny, though: Henrietta’s taken to calling him the Magyar equivalent of his name. I dare say he shall be confused later in life!”
“Magyar? What’s that?”
“Hungarian.”
“There’s a different way of saying names in Hungarian?” I frowned.
“Evidently,” replied Norman with an amused grin. “She calls him János, not Jonathan.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Well, maybe one day you can introduce us. If you can remember which name to use!”
We laughed, then Norman suddenly seemed to remember his water and drank so deeply, droplets clung to his moustache. He quietly pardoned himself and dabbed at his lip with a handkerchief.
I finished mine and set the bottle down a little harder than I meant to.
“I think I’ll take some air,” I said. “Will you come? I doubt the plans are going to be given to us any time soon.”
Norman shook his head. “I’ll wait here, in case they arrive. You go. I’ll fetch you.”
I nodded in gratitude, then ducked out of the tent. The anxiety and sickness were no less palpable than before. I caught the hint of faraway smoke on the breeze, and stifled a cough as I glanced in the direction of the Russian fires. I was unsure if it was nerves for what was to come, but whatever they were burning smelled sharper than I was expecting.
The nurses were still moving about. They looked harassed and their uniforms clung tightly to their bodies, saturated with sweat and rainwater. One swept past me with a bundle of soiled bandaged in her arms. A couple of cadets from my Brigade noticed her and leered in her direction like hyenas. One even had the audacity to pluck at the bottom of her skirt.
My temper simmered, and I quickly stepped between them. The men recoiled in shock. They hadn’t noticed me approaching.
“I’ll not tolerate behaviour like that,” I snapped. “Keep your hands to yourselves.”
“Yes, Sir,” they mumbled.
I glared at them for a moment longer until their cheeks burned with shame, then I turned to the nurse and steered her away. I could tell at once that she was French. Her uniform was different to the British Army nurses.
“Are you alright?” I asked. “Can you understand me?”
“I understand,” she said, in heavily-accented and broken English. “I thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, with as much of a smile as I could muster. She was certainly attractive: slender as a sapling, with pale skin, and though her hair was concealed beneath a cap, her eyebrows betrayed their deep red colour. Her hands, however, were heavily scarred, as though they had been scratched to excess, and small red blisters had risen along the edges of her fingers. It reminded me of the sweat rash which could be rife in such heat as this.
“If any of them are inappropriate towards you again,” I said, “you must come to me. Lieutenant Henry Jones. Alright?”
She nodded. “I thank you.”
“What’s your name? Uh… Comment vous appelez-vous?”
I cringed at my terrible pronunciation, but a smile traced her lips.
“Bernadette Trébuchet,” she answered. “Merci, Monsieur.”
She bobbed her head like a bird, then bade me a hasty goodbye and continued to her duties.
I walked to the edge of the encampment, and gazed out upon a land devoid of anything. The black sky swept over an even blacker ground. Not a breath of wind blew, and the rain thundered on my helmet.
Back there, somewhere, was Kalamita Bay, where we had landed a few days prior. I remembered watching the horses struggling to swim ashore in the mounting surf. Why could we have not made the crossing in steamships, rather than wooden sailing ships which took twice as long? Twice as long to contract the cholera, or run out of the meagre three-day rations obtained at Varna?
Morale hung on a knife edge. I could hear the men groaning behind me as the illness tore through their bellies like a bayonet. Some of them, the younger ones, believed the war would be over before Christmas; that they would barely have a chance to see blood and taste honour before heading back to England.
I was no such fool. War was war, and it was always hard and ugly and longer than anyone thought it would be. No matter that Britannia ruled the waves. We were not on the waves now. We were here, far from home, far from anything most of us had ever known. The only certainty on that horizon was death.
Then, on the past horizon, I thought I noticed something. Was it the enemy? Had they somehow moved around us and were planning on surprising us from behind?
I squinted into the darkness. No, there were too few of them to form any kind of effective attack. And… were they flying? Were those wings I saw, like giant bats?
I shook my head. The last few days had been long and under a sweltering sun. I didn’t have any symptoms of heatstroke, but my mind must still be playing tricks on me. Nerves, no doubt, coupled with hunger and the final clutches of seasickness.
As quickly as I spotted them, the winged things disappeared. Yes, I must have imagined them.
I heard Norman calling. I returned to him and the two of us joined our fellow officers before Lieutenant-General Sir Brown. We all saluted, and watched as he drew up the plans: a hastily-sketched map which had already smudged in the rain.
“Lord Raglan has decided on the best approach,” he said. “We shall meet them at the Alma, as presumed. It will be a four-mile march there, but if we leave early then we should reach the plain by mid-morning. There are Russian batteries and redoubts here and here. So, our forces will proceed southwards simultaneously; the French and Turks will take the right flank, by the sea, and we shall cover the rest.”
I swallowed as I looked at where he was pointing. I threw a sideways glance at Norman and noticed the gleam of perspiration on his cheeks. I knew it was not just from the humid night. He had realised it, too.
The Allies had the higher numbers, but we would be heading straight into the Russian guns, with no cover.
I closed my eyes for a moment which felt more like an eternity, and prayed as I had never prayed before.
First, the ships were directed to land at a beach, instead of a port: an open, ill-equipped stretch which had to somehow hold all of us. Then it had taken five full days to ferry everyone to shore. Many were sick with cholera, and their vomit stank out the cabins. Those who had died on the way had been weighted down and given burial at sea. Some had to be buried upon the sand when we landed, in long, shallow mass graves. Then we realised we had no transport, and had to salvage what we could from nearby farms.
It would be hilarious if it were not so serious. The Russians knew we were coming. Even from here, their watch fires lit up the night. They were prepared. How were we supposed to wrest Sebastopol from them in such dire straits as this?
Had the men not been watching, I might have shed a tear as I walked through the camp. It was barely even fitting of that name. The tents were few; those we had were rotted with holes and mould. The hot summer air hung close, the humidity made heavier with rain which drove at us like needles, magnifying the stench of unwashed bodies and fishy odour of diarrhoea. Everywhere I looked, I saw men rolling on the ground, clutching their stomachs in agony, begging for water and morphine. Nurses – British and French – hurried about, tending to the wounds received that day. The Bulganak River flowed nearby, through turf as green and smooth as a racecourse.
But I could only think of another river: the one we would be marching towards in the morning. The Alma.
“You look like you could use a cup of tea, Harry,” Norman said from beside me.
“Or a glass of brandy,” I muttered.
We ducked into a nearby tent. Dirty cots sat in the corners, along with a table and a couple of chairs, which the men had pillaged from a Tatar house near the beach. Norman sat in one of them while I poured a little water for us both.
“You look terrible,” he remarked.
“I feel terrible. Lord Raglan’s never headed so much as a battalion, and now he’s in charge of thirty thousand men? And he thinks we can take Sebastopol in two weeks? Next he’ll be saying pigs can fly.”
“You don’t think we can do it?”
“We can. The question is whether our superiors can. A man can only do his best with what he can, wherever he finds himself.”
I took a swig of the water. It was bottled from the river outside. When the men first saw it, we had rushed down into the valley, desperate to drink. The day had been long and the sun scorching upon our shoulders. All of us were laden with heavy kit and the weight of our rifles; then Lord Lucan and Lord Cardigan had spotted enemy cavalry. We pushed them back and bivouacked for the night, but tension filled the air, like the uncomfortable invisible heaviness which brings forth a storm.
“I think we can do it,” Norman insisted. “We have more men.”
“The Russians have the higher ground.”
“And we have the French with us.”
“We’ve also two brothers-in-law in command who were arguing when we were being fired at,” I said impatiently. “Did you hear about that? It’s lucky we didn’t have any real fighting to do today. But we go into battle tomorrow, and nobody knows what the Hell we’re even doing!”
Norman winced. “I’m sure they’re convening right now.”
I shook my head in frustration. I loved him like a brother, but how could he be so flippant? We were both Lieutenants of the Second Rifle Brigade; twenty-seven years old, not boys anymore. I had held the position for a little longer than Norman, but we knew how the army worked – or, was supposed to work.
“Pray, distract me,” I said. “I need to occupy myself with things other than this.”
“What would you like to talk about?”
“Anything.” My eyes roved about the tent like a cat in search of a fly. “How is Henrietta?”
A grin rose at the corner of Norman’s mouth, but disappeared just as quickly.
“She was well the last time I saw her.”
“Is she not in Crimea anymore?” I asked in alarm.
Norman shook his head. “She only came here in the first place to escape the Hungarian Revolution. It’s safer back there now than it is here.”
I grimaced. Norman had travelled these parts a few years ago, and fallen in love with a young Hungarian woman. I had never met her, as this was my first outing to foreign lands, but I had heard his tales often. She had even borne his child, and three months prior, when British involvement loomed over the Russian threat to Eastern Europe, he had married her in an Orthodox church.
He seemed to read my thoughts, because when he spoke again, it was with more of a smile.
“I've got it all planned out,” he said. “I have her address in Buda-Pesth; some boarding house. It’s not much, but it will do for now, until we’re finished here. Once the war is over and we go home, I’ll use my money from the campaign to send for her and little Jonathan, and they shall want for nothing.”
“Do you think she’ll want to come to England?” I asked dubiously.
“It would not be the first time she left Austria-Hungary,” replied Norman. He leaned back in his chair and fixed his eyes on a distant future. “She already speaks a little English, and I will teach Jonathan myself. We shall return to Liverpool, of course. I’ll buy one of those large new houses in Toxteth, where we can take walks in the park.”
I sighed to myself. He was more naïve than me; and a part of me wished I could indulge it as much as he did. But I was the more pragmatic. I had been ever since we were children, when we met after his family invested in my father’s mines in Wales. I was fortunate enough to have that security, for the business would one day come to me, and I would certainly want for nothing. But Norman’s finances had taken a downward turn the previous year, when his father squandered everything on opium and racehorses.
I wasn’t even certain he could bring Henrietta and their son to England. But I couldn’t bear to dash his hopes on the eve of battle. And I couldn't blame him for wishing to restore his honour.
“How old is he now, your boy?” I asked instead.
“Almost one,” said Norman proudly. “He’ll be a beautiful young man, I know it already.”
“If you do say so yourself,” I smirked.
“I do! Wait until you see him! His face is like something from a Richmond painting, even at this age. It’s a little funny, though: Henrietta’s taken to calling him the Magyar equivalent of his name. I dare say he shall be confused later in life!”
“Magyar? What’s that?”
“Hungarian.”
“There’s a different way of saying names in Hungarian?” I frowned.
“Evidently,” replied Norman with an amused grin. “She calls him János, not Jonathan.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Well, maybe one day you can introduce us. If you can remember which name to use!”
We laughed, then Norman suddenly seemed to remember his water and drank so deeply, droplets clung to his moustache. He quietly pardoned himself and dabbed at his lip with a handkerchief.
I finished mine and set the bottle down a little harder than I meant to.
“I think I’ll take some air,” I said. “Will you come? I doubt the plans are going to be given to us any time soon.”
Norman shook his head. “I’ll wait here, in case they arrive. You go. I’ll fetch you.”
I nodded in gratitude, then ducked out of the tent. The anxiety and sickness were no less palpable than before. I caught the hint of faraway smoke on the breeze, and stifled a cough as I glanced in the direction of the Russian fires. I was unsure if it was nerves for what was to come, but whatever they were burning smelled sharper than I was expecting.
The nurses were still moving about. They looked harassed and their uniforms clung tightly to their bodies, saturated with sweat and rainwater. One swept past me with a bundle of soiled bandaged in her arms. A couple of cadets from my Brigade noticed her and leered in her direction like hyenas. One even had the audacity to pluck at the bottom of her skirt.
My temper simmered, and I quickly stepped between them. The men recoiled in shock. They hadn’t noticed me approaching.
“I’ll not tolerate behaviour like that,” I snapped. “Keep your hands to yourselves.”
“Yes, Sir,” they mumbled.
I glared at them for a moment longer until their cheeks burned with shame, then I turned to the nurse and steered her away. I could tell at once that she was French. Her uniform was different to the British Army nurses.
“Are you alright?” I asked. “Can you understand me?”
“I understand,” she said, in heavily-accented and broken English. “I thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I said, with as much of a smile as I could muster. She was certainly attractive: slender as a sapling, with pale skin, and though her hair was concealed beneath a cap, her eyebrows betrayed their deep red colour. Her hands, however, were heavily scarred, as though they had been scratched to excess, and small red blisters had risen along the edges of her fingers. It reminded me of the sweat rash which could be rife in such heat as this.
“If any of them are inappropriate towards you again,” I said, “you must come to me. Lieutenant Henry Jones. Alright?”
She nodded. “I thank you.”
“What’s your name? Uh… Comment vous appelez-vous?”
I cringed at my terrible pronunciation, but a smile traced her lips.
“Bernadette Trébuchet,” she answered. “Merci, Monsieur.”
She bobbed her head like a bird, then bade me a hasty goodbye and continued to her duties.
I walked to the edge of the encampment, and gazed out upon a land devoid of anything. The black sky swept over an even blacker ground. Not a breath of wind blew, and the rain thundered on my helmet.
Back there, somewhere, was Kalamita Bay, where we had landed a few days prior. I remembered watching the horses struggling to swim ashore in the mounting surf. Why could we have not made the crossing in steamships, rather than wooden sailing ships which took twice as long? Twice as long to contract the cholera, or run out of the meagre three-day rations obtained at Varna?
Morale hung on a knife edge. I could hear the men groaning behind me as the illness tore through their bellies like a bayonet. Some of them, the younger ones, believed the war would be over before Christmas; that they would barely have a chance to see blood and taste honour before heading back to England.
I was no such fool. War was war, and it was always hard and ugly and longer than anyone thought it would be. No matter that Britannia ruled the waves. We were not on the waves now. We were here, far from home, far from anything most of us had ever known. The only certainty on that horizon was death.
Then, on the past horizon, I thought I noticed something. Was it the enemy? Had they somehow moved around us and were planning on surprising us from behind?
I squinted into the darkness. No, there were too few of them to form any kind of effective attack. And… were they flying? Were those wings I saw, like giant bats?
I shook my head. The last few days had been long and under a sweltering sun. I didn’t have any symptoms of heatstroke, but my mind must still be playing tricks on me. Nerves, no doubt, coupled with hunger and the final clutches of seasickness.
As quickly as I spotted them, the winged things disappeared. Yes, I must have imagined them.
I heard Norman calling. I returned to him and the two of us joined our fellow officers before Lieutenant-General Sir Brown. We all saluted, and watched as he drew up the plans: a hastily-sketched map which had already smudged in the rain.
“Lord Raglan has decided on the best approach,” he said. “We shall meet them at the Alma, as presumed. It will be a four-mile march there, but if we leave early then we should reach the plain by mid-morning. There are Russian batteries and redoubts here and here. So, our forces will proceed southwards simultaneously; the French and Turks will take the right flank, by the sea, and we shall cover the rest.”
I swallowed as I looked at where he was pointing. I threw a sideways glance at Norman and noticed the gleam of perspiration on his cheeks. I knew it was not just from the humid night. He had realised it, too.
The Allies had the higher numbers, but we would be heading straight into the Russian guns, with no cover.
I closed my eyes for a moment which felt more like an eternity, and prayed as I had never prayed before.
*
We rose when the sun was scarcely a promise upon the horizon. Blissfully, the rain had ceased, allowing the camp to be packed down with relative ease. However, in perfect keeping with the entire campaign, it took longer than anyone wanted. Bivouacs were stuffed onto carts and the air filled with the sound of retching. As soon as one man had finished, his neighbour began.
The smell of their sickness permeated my own nerves, as Norman and I stood near the front of the Brigade in the Light Division. My rifle was so heavy, my shoulder became numb from it. I pictured its innards, filled with gunpowder and bullets. My heart fluttered, but my military training and firm composure prevented me from breaking. With the new day, morale had gained a foothold, and Lord Raglan’s confidence was infectious as he cried out, “Prepare to march for Alma!”
There was no room for doubt. No room for anything, save for the job which needed to be done. This was the British Army, after all. The soldiers beside me were the sons of those who had stood at Waterloo. Its power ran in my blood like the fire of a phoenix. We were strong. I just had to hope that the men in charge could prove as strong as the men who flanked them.
Soon enough, we reached the Alma. It wasn't a wide river, nor deep, but it served as a perfect divide between us and what lay ahead. The valley stretched wide like a beautiful painting: lush grass spotted with small villages. But upon sight of it, a stone dropped in my stomach.
The Russians had positioned themselves on the heights on the other side of the river. They stood in a wall upon the hills, and at the front of them were a series of huge siege guns.
We hung back as the French advanced first, under a blast of trumpets and horns. With the sea at their side, they were covered by the fleet. Then our generals received word to attack.
The officers turned to us and shouted, “God save the Queen!”
“God save the Queen!” we roared back.
My entire body trembled with fierceness as we moved towards the river. The sun scorched my shoulders, but I kept my attention on the massive guns. Norman must have been looking at them too, because he whispered to me:
“They only have those because they’re afraid, Harry. Afraid, because they know we outnumber them.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn't. In an instant, I saw every detail about me: every blade of grass; every fold in the Lieutenant-General’s uniform and every hair upon his horse’s neck. My hands itched for my rifle, ready to aim and squeeze the trigger at a moment’s notice. I felt the oxygen of every inhale race through my bloodstream.
I fixed my eyes on the enemy. I was going to kill those men today, and I was ready.
And then the air split with gunfire.
It came down upon us like a metal rain. The greenery turned red. The cries of morale transformed into agonised screams. The men at the front fell, and didn't move.
A comrade’s blood sprayed my face. I barely felt it, but I tasted it as it ran over my lips: strong, metallic. I swallowed a little in my anxiousness. I didn’t care.
“Goddamn it!” Norman snarled.
“Hold your position!” I snapped at him.
The divisions split in two and continued the advance. I opened fire as soon as I came within range. The rifle jolted against my shoulder, and for a moment, I worried I might have put my arm out of joint. But no. I had prepared for this.
Shouts and cries came from every direction. We hardly sounded like men anymore, only animals clad in uniformed fabric. Bodies collapsed, limbs were blown off, innards turned outwards. The pristine valley turned into a painting of gore. There was nothing glorious in the sight. No romantic scene, as one might see depicted by an artist, safe at home with his children at his feet. No, this was carnage of the highest order, and it was only the beginning.
I struggled onwards. Time blurred as though I had fallen into a nightmare. I was hardly aware of my feet. We just had to keep going. I would take that enemy upon the heights. We would gain this ground and have Sebastopol.
Bullets tore past me and I threw myself to the ground. I glimpsed Norman nearby, but only stopped for long enough to register that he was still alive, and so was I. The others were dropping like flies. Smoke clogged the hot air; ashes drifted before my face in a macabre snowfall. In the village, the enemy had set the straw-packed houses aflame.
I refused to panic. Panic would spell the end. We could not stop. The moment we stopped was the moment we would die.
My division drew close to the burning village. Flames stabbed against the sky, shrouding everything in black smoke. The air stank; no breath was without pain. I held a hand over my mouth, yet still I inhaled the fumes. They muddied my lungs and I coughed so violently, I thought I might vomit. It was too hot, too poisonous…
My knees buckled. My rifle absorbed the heat and seared my hand where I held it. My uniform compressed on my skin, weighted with blood. All around was the thunder of marching boots; the sounds of dying men and cracking gunfire. I was trapped by it, growing faint, burning alive as the fire drew closer still…
A hand grasped my shoulder and hauled me up. I looked through tear-streaked eyes, straight into Norman’s face.
“On your feet, Harry!” he cried. “Now! Come on!”
There was no time to think. He pulled me close, and stood steadfast at my side.
The regiment cramped together to avoid the inferno. I couldn’t move. We were crammed like sardines against our neighbours, gasping for breath. I had never felt so hot. I was sure my skin would melt off my bones like wax.
Distantly, I realised that Lord Raglan hadn’t prepared for something like this. And if he had, he hadn’t told anybody. I’d been right. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing.
But I did. We did. I knew it, even as the smoke tightened about my brain. We would not be doomed. We – I – would not fall on the first day of battle. And I would be damned if Norman did, either.
It numbly occurred to me that we had been fighting for hours, but I paid no need. Time was an abstract thing, as distant and intangible as England in that moment. I could count the hours later.
We were closer now. The Russian bullets bore down upon us like never before. Those terrible siege guns unleashed volley after volley. The Highlanders were encroaching on them, but it only seemed to fuel the enemy’s ire.
However, it was no match for my own. I lifted my rifle and fired relentlessly. I lost count of how many men I shot. I didn't care. They would kill me, given half the chance.
Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Man had become beast, and this was the way it must be in war.
We reached the Alma. Norman crashed into the river and held his rifle above his head to keep it dry. I ran beside him and almost lost my footing. The current wrapped itself around my legs and threatened to pull me under. And though it only came to my hips, I couldn’t see the bottom. The water ran red, thick with blood.
“Come on!” Norman shouted to me.
I struggled to keep pace with him in the frenzy. The tiny river seemed like an ocean as we surged across it. Heavy musket fire showered upon us from above. The man beside me didn't even have time to scream as a bullet tore through his head. Brains and skull fragments splashed over my arm. Another infantryman managed to take out two Russians before he too succumbed.
The river bed slowly began to rise beneath my feet. At last, I was almost there.
Norman was in front of me by a few paces, rifle already raised at a distracted Russian. But another of the enemy had also turned a musket on him, and was taking aim.
My heart leapt into my mouth. If time had seemed slow before, now it ceased completely. I no longer heard the gunfire and cries. I saw nothing other than Norman, straight in the line of fire. There were mere moments to spare.
I threw myself into him with all my strength, and knocked him aside.
Agony shattered my chest.
I floated somewhere above myself. I felt the river surging over my legs and blood drenching my uniform. And this time, it was my blood.
The smell of their sickness permeated my own nerves, as Norman and I stood near the front of the Brigade in the Light Division. My rifle was so heavy, my shoulder became numb from it. I pictured its innards, filled with gunpowder and bullets. My heart fluttered, but my military training and firm composure prevented me from breaking. With the new day, morale had gained a foothold, and Lord Raglan’s confidence was infectious as he cried out, “Prepare to march for Alma!”
There was no room for doubt. No room for anything, save for the job which needed to be done. This was the British Army, after all. The soldiers beside me were the sons of those who had stood at Waterloo. Its power ran in my blood like the fire of a phoenix. We were strong. I just had to hope that the men in charge could prove as strong as the men who flanked them.
Soon enough, we reached the Alma. It wasn't a wide river, nor deep, but it served as a perfect divide between us and what lay ahead. The valley stretched wide like a beautiful painting: lush grass spotted with small villages. But upon sight of it, a stone dropped in my stomach.
The Russians had positioned themselves on the heights on the other side of the river. They stood in a wall upon the hills, and at the front of them were a series of huge siege guns.
We hung back as the French advanced first, under a blast of trumpets and horns. With the sea at their side, they were covered by the fleet. Then our generals received word to attack.
The officers turned to us and shouted, “God save the Queen!”
“God save the Queen!” we roared back.
My entire body trembled with fierceness as we moved towards the river. The sun scorched my shoulders, but I kept my attention on the massive guns. Norman must have been looking at them too, because he whispered to me:
“They only have those because they’re afraid, Harry. Afraid, because they know we outnumber them.”
I didn’t reply. I couldn't. In an instant, I saw every detail about me: every blade of grass; every fold in the Lieutenant-General’s uniform and every hair upon his horse’s neck. My hands itched for my rifle, ready to aim and squeeze the trigger at a moment’s notice. I felt the oxygen of every inhale race through my bloodstream.
I fixed my eyes on the enemy. I was going to kill those men today, and I was ready.
And then the air split with gunfire.
It came down upon us like a metal rain. The greenery turned red. The cries of morale transformed into agonised screams. The men at the front fell, and didn't move.
A comrade’s blood sprayed my face. I barely felt it, but I tasted it as it ran over my lips: strong, metallic. I swallowed a little in my anxiousness. I didn’t care.
“Goddamn it!” Norman snarled.
“Hold your position!” I snapped at him.
The divisions split in two and continued the advance. I opened fire as soon as I came within range. The rifle jolted against my shoulder, and for a moment, I worried I might have put my arm out of joint. But no. I had prepared for this.
Shouts and cries came from every direction. We hardly sounded like men anymore, only animals clad in uniformed fabric. Bodies collapsed, limbs were blown off, innards turned outwards. The pristine valley turned into a painting of gore. There was nothing glorious in the sight. No romantic scene, as one might see depicted by an artist, safe at home with his children at his feet. No, this was carnage of the highest order, and it was only the beginning.
I struggled onwards. Time blurred as though I had fallen into a nightmare. I was hardly aware of my feet. We just had to keep going. I would take that enemy upon the heights. We would gain this ground and have Sebastopol.
Bullets tore past me and I threw myself to the ground. I glimpsed Norman nearby, but only stopped for long enough to register that he was still alive, and so was I. The others were dropping like flies. Smoke clogged the hot air; ashes drifted before my face in a macabre snowfall. In the village, the enemy had set the straw-packed houses aflame.
I refused to panic. Panic would spell the end. We could not stop. The moment we stopped was the moment we would die.
My division drew close to the burning village. Flames stabbed against the sky, shrouding everything in black smoke. The air stank; no breath was without pain. I held a hand over my mouth, yet still I inhaled the fumes. They muddied my lungs and I coughed so violently, I thought I might vomit. It was too hot, too poisonous…
My knees buckled. My rifle absorbed the heat and seared my hand where I held it. My uniform compressed on my skin, weighted with blood. All around was the thunder of marching boots; the sounds of dying men and cracking gunfire. I was trapped by it, growing faint, burning alive as the fire drew closer still…
A hand grasped my shoulder and hauled me up. I looked through tear-streaked eyes, straight into Norman’s face.
“On your feet, Harry!” he cried. “Now! Come on!”
There was no time to think. He pulled me close, and stood steadfast at my side.
The regiment cramped together to avoid the inferno. I couldn’t move. We were crammed like sardines against our neighbours, gasping for breath. I had never felt so hot. I was sure my skin would melt off my bones like wax.
Distantly, I realised that Lord Raglan hadn’t prepared for something like this. And if he had, he hadn’t told anybody. I’d been right. He didn’t have the slightest idea of what he was doing.
But I did. We did. I knew it, even as the smoke tightened about my brain. We would not be doomed. We – I – would not fall on the first day of battle. And I would be damned if Norman did, either.
It numbly occurred to me that we had been fighting for hours, but I paid no need. Time was an abstract thing, as distant and intangible as England in that moment. I could count the hours later.
We were closer now. The Russian bullets bore down upon us like never before. Those terrible siege guns unleashed volley after volley. The Highlanders were encroaching on them, but it only seemed to fuel the enemy’s ire.
However, it was no match for my own. I lifted my rifle and fired relentlessly. I lost count of how many men I shot. I didn't care. They would kill me, given half the chance.
Kill or be killed. Eat or be eaten. Man had become beast, and this was the way it must be in war.
We reached the Alma. Norman crashed into the river and held his rifle above his head to keep it dry. I ran beside him and almost lost my footing. The current wrapped itself around my legs and threatened to pull me under. And though it only came to my hips, I couldn’t see the bottom. The water ran red, thick with blood.
“Come on!” Norman shouted to me.
I struggled to keep pace with him in the frenzy. The tiny river seemed like an ocean as we surged across it. Heavy musket fire showered upon us from above. The man beside me didn't even have time to scream as a bullet tore through his head. Brains and skull fragments splashed over my arm. Another infantryman managed to take out two Russians before he too succumbed.
The river bed slowly began to rise beneath my feet. At last, I was almost there.
Norman was in front of me by a few paces, rifle already raised at a distracted Russian. But another of the enemy had also turned a musket on him, and was taking aim.
My heart leapt into my mouth. If time had seemed slow before, now it ceased completely. I no longer heard the gunfire and cries. I saw nothing other than Norman, straight in the line of fire. There were mere moments to spare.
I threw myself into him with all my strength, and knocked him aside.
Agony shattered my chest.
I floated somewhere above myself. I felt the river surging over my legs and blood drenching my uniform. And this time, it was my blood.
*
Breathe. In and out. It was pain beyond pain. I dived down to get away from it, but I couldn’t move. My own body prevented me. I was lying in a coffin of my own flesh.
I wanted to stop gasping, but my lungs forced me to continue. What had happened?
I gathered every ounce energy I found, and opened my eyes to an overcast sky. It was dark. I raised my head by a few inches, and peered over a valley filled with death. The Alma flowed on, its bloody water almost black. Corpses littered the ground as far as I could see: British, French, Russian, Ottoman. A Scotsman lay near me with his intestines strung about his legs.
Something was moving in the distance. Was it they the enemy, coming to finish off anyone who had survived? Or was it my comrades?
I couldn't tell. I heard no final shots nor cries of relief. Indeed… the figures looked bloated, dark even against the lightless sky.
And… were those wings protruding from their shoulders? Were they angels? But I thought angel wings were feathered, not skeletal and bat-like…
My head fell back. Strange vultures around these parts.
I drifted away. I wasn’t sure how long I lay in purgatory, but when I next came to my senses, I could tell the sun had risen without even opening my eyes. The light transformed my lids pink. Humidity pressed on my skin and brought forth a dragging wave of nausea.
I gritted my teeth and prayed not to vomit. I knew I wouldn't be able to turn over if I did. I could not have survived… whatever I’d survived… just to choke like that.
Survived?
I squinted at the blue sky. Was I in heaven? No, I couldn’t be. There would be no pain if I were dead.
A face appeared above me. There was a ring of white above its head – a halo? Had an angel come to bear me away? Was this another like those things I had seen on the battlefield?
No. It wasn't a halo. It was a nurse’s cap.
“Try to lie still, Sir,” she said in a thick Liverpudlian accent.
Every touch of her hand was like fire. I tried to focus on something, anything, else. There was no gunfire. No frenzied shouts. The lapping river was gone, and so was my jacket and shirt and rifle.
“Did we win?” I hissed.
“Hush, Sir. You were shot.”
“Did we…”
My words trailed off. The pain was all-consuming. I could almost feel an empty tunnel of destroyed flesh stretching between the two holes in my torso.
How was I still alive?
Someone carried me away. I felt the characteristic tug of stitches on my chest, and more of them in my shoulder blade. It didn't hurt. I was too far gone.
I spiralled into darkness and hung there, like I used to in the sea at Penmaenmawr as a child. Father and I had taken a trip into Wales, to the mines. While he worked, I played in the water, surrounded by the headlands. Yes, it was peaceful. There was nothing to think about. Nowhere to be, except where nobody could find me.
Something constricted around my hand. I tried to pull away from it, but it held on tight. I snarled. Why couldn’t they leave me alone?
“Monsieur Jones?”
I frowned. Who was that? It wasn’t English. Wasn’t Welsh, either…
“Monsieur, you hear me?”
A memory flickered in my mind. French. Yes, that was it. A young French woman. A nurse. I had protected her… Had that been yesterday? Last year?
I squinted. She was blurred, but it was definitely her. She was dark against a twilit sky, and for a moment, I fancied wings behind her. Were they feathery or leathery? I wasn’t sure.
What was her name again? Bernadette?
“Monsieur, squeeze if you hear me. Do it!”
A hundred miles away, I tightened my fingers around hers. Her skin was rough from blisters. I remembered that – like a sweat rash. Common in the heat…
“You are hurt very bad,” she said. “You will not survive, and there is new fight coming. I can help, but not as a nurse. You tell me, you say yes? Do you say yes to my help?”
I frowned and forced my lips to work. It took all the effort of a shout, yet only came out as a whisper.
“What kind of help?”
“It will save your life, but will hurt. And it will change you.”
I screamed through gritted teeth. The pain was coming back.
“Monsieur, little time!”
Why couldn’t she leave me alone? I had to make her shut up and let go of my hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” I rasped. “Do what you have to do.”
“You say yes to my help?”
I growled. What wasn’t she understanding? I could barely speak; why was she making me repeat myself?
“Yes. I give permission for you to… do whatever you have to.”
There was silence. I waited for her to release me, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned my head gently to the side.
“Oui, Monsieur,” she whispered.
Something sharp dug into my neck.
My eyes flew open. All I saw was her shoulder as she bent over me. Was she biting me?
On instinct, I raised a hand to grab her, and gasped. My veins were black.
At last, she let go. I fell back once again, but there was something with me this time. Something strong, spreading like the first stretch of sun through a land long locked in winter. It filled my body, and then it was gone.
And so was she.
When I next opened my eyes, I was stunned to see Norman beside me. His face, stretched with concern, suddenly bloomed into excited relief.
“You’re awake!” he cried. “Thank God, Harry! You’re awake!”
I glanced at myself, with considerably more ease than before. I was still wrapped in bandages, but breathing no longer hurt as terribly. The sun pierced my eyes, and my head felt as though it had been ground against a millstone, but it was in one piece. All of me was.
I looked around. I was in a new camp, the tents a little better structured than the bivouacs. More wounded were strewn on either side of me. A plethora of unpleasant smells choked the air: blood, vomit, diarrhoea, gangrene, bodily wastes… but the pungency was so real, it chased away any lingering notion that I was at death’s door. Somehow, incredibly, I had survived.
I squinted at the army doctors and nurses. Most were British, some French, but I saw no sign of Bernadette. Had I imagined her? I had hallucinated many things: black veins, Welsh seas, angels, winged creatures… all the crazed realities of any man who might find himself on the edge of life.
I went to sit up.
“No, no!” Norman said, grabbing my shoulders. “You must rest!”
“I can manage,” I insisted, and pushed him off. To my own surprise, I did – everything still hurt, but somehow, I knew it wouldn't spell my end.
Norman passed me a canteen and I downed all the contents in a few frantic gulps. Every swallow felt as though my muscles had been scoured with sand.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
Norman looked taken aback.
“Me? God, don’t worry about me! Are you alright?”
“I… I’m fine,” I said carefully. “I really am fine.”
Norman’s eyes glowed and he grasped my wrist.
“Harry, you pushed me out of the way,” he said. “You did this… you took a bullet for me. How can I ever repay you?”
Was that what had happened? I couldn’t remember. But I took his word for it and managed a smile.
“Well, you need to get through this,” I said. “You have a wife and son to take back to England.”
Norman bit his lip. For a moment, I thought he might cry. I could tell from the twitch in his muscles that he wanted to spring forward and embrace me. But he held himself in check, and instead shook my hand as gently as he could.
“I owe you everything,” he said.
“Then pay it back by doing your best to survive without me having to do this again,” I joked.
Norman chuckled. “Then how about one day, if you have a daughter, she marries my Jonathan? Or, heck, it can be our grandchildren!”
“Don’t count your chickens,” I replied. “Now, tell me what happened. Please tell me we won.”
“We did,” Norman assured.
I was so relieved, I had no more energy to stay upright. He helped me to lower myself back onto the stretcher. I groaned as the stitches tugged against my skin.
“It was a hard hit,” continued Norman. “We lost a couple of thousand men. I’m not sure about the French losses. We collected some of the Russian artillery, though. One step closer to Sebastopol.”
“Is that where we’re heading next?”
“That’s the idea. Lord Raglan and the others are already planning things.”
I suppressed a snort. They had better do a better job of preparing for that than what they had done thus far. I would tear out my hair if we received plans the night before the battle again.
My face must have been easy to read, because Norman took off his cap and smoothed his greasy hair.
“It was pure luck we won,” he admitted. “Luck and grit.”
“It can’t go on like this,” I said. “We shall need more than luck on our side if we’re to win the war.”
Norman’s eyes took on a strange sheen of both determination and humour.
“Of course, we’ll win,” he said with a half-smile. “How else will I get home and fetch my family?”
We shared a grin, then he got to his feet, promising to refill the canteen for me and come straight back. As he walked away, I checked my body once again, still stunned that I had survived.
How was it possible? I had taken a bullet to the chest. Had it missed all my vital organs? Yes, that must be it. There was no chance I would have survived if my heart or lung had been hit.
The thought of my heart stirred something within me. I pressed two fingers to my neck to feel it beating. The sensation brought a new sense of relief, such as I had never known before.
Then I felt something else and frowned. There was another strip of bandage around my neck, which I hadn’t noticed earlier.
I gingerly worked a finger underneath it and found a second wound, a few inches long, down my jugular. It was not from a bullet, however. It was clean and thin, as though made by a razor blade.
I wanted to stop gasping, but my lungs forced me to continue. What had happened?
I gathered every ounce energy I found, and opened my eyes to an overcast sky. It was dark. I raised my head by a few inches, and peered over a valley filled with death. The Alma flowed on, its bloody water almost black. Corpses littered the ground as far as I could see: British, French, Russian, Ottoman. A Scotsman lay near me with his intestines strung about his legs.
Something was moving in the distance. Was it they the enemy, coming to finish off anyone who had survived? Or was it my comrades?
I couldn't tell. I heard no final shots nor cries of relief. Indeed… the figures looked bloated, dark even against the lightless sky.
And… were those wings protruding from their shoulders? Were they angels? But I thought angel wings were feathered, not skeletal and bat-like…
My head fell back. Strange vultures around these parts.
I drifted away. I wasn’t sure how long I lay in purgatory, but when I next came to my senses, I could tell the sun had risen without even opening my eyes. The light transformed my lids pink. Humidity pressed on my skin and brought forth a dragging wave of nausea.
I gritted my teeth and prayed not to vomit. I knew I wouldn't be able to turn over if I did. I could not have survived… whatever I’d survived… just to choke like that.
Survived?
I squinted at the blue sky. Was I in heaven? No, I couldn’t be. There would be no pain if I were dead.
A face appeared above me. There was a ring of white above its head – a halo? Had an angel come to bear me away? Was this another like those things I had seen on the battlefield?
No. It wasn't a halo. It was a nurse’s cap.
“Try to lie still, Sir,” she said in a thick Liverpudlian accent.
Every touch of her hand was like fire. I tried to focus on something, anything, else. There was no gunfire. No frenzied shouts. The lapping river was gone, and so was my jacket and shirt and rifle.
“Did we win?” I hissed.
“Hush, Sir. You were shot.”
“Did we…”
My words trailed off. The pain was all-consuming. I could almost feel an empty tunnel of destroyed flesh stretching between the two holes in my torso.
How was I still alive?
Someone carried me away. I felt the characteristic tug of stitches on my chest, and more of them in my shoulder blade. It didn't hurt. I was too far gone.
I spiralled into darkness and hung there, like I used to in the sea at Penmaenmawr as a child. Father and I had taken a trip into Wales, to the mines. While he worked, I played in the water, surrounded by the headlands. Yes, it was peaceful. There was nothing to think about. Nowhere to be, except where nobody could find me.
Something constricted around my hand. I tried to pull away from it, but it held on tight. I snarled. Why couldn’t they leave me alone?
“Monsieur Jones?”
I frowned. Who was that? It wasn’t English. Wasn’t Welsh, either…
“Monsieur, you hear me?”
A memory flickered in my mind. French. Yes, that was it. A young French woman. A nurse. I had protected her… Had that been yesterday? Last year?
I squinted. She was blurred, but it was definitely her. She was dark against a twilit sky, and for a moment, I fancied wings behind her. Were they feathery or leathery? I wasn’t sure.
What was her name again? Bernadette?
“Monsieur, squeeze if you hear me. Do it!”
A hundred miles away, I tightened my fingers around hers. Her skin was rough from blisters. I remembered that – like a sweat rash. Common in the heat…
“You are hurt very bad,” she said. “You will not survive, and there is new fight coming. I can help, but not as a nurse. You tell me, you say yes? Do you say yes to my help?”
I frowned and forced my lips to work. It took all the effort of a shout, yet only came out as a whisper.
“What kind of help?”
“It will save your life, but will hurt. And it will change you.”
I screamed through gritted teeth. The pain was coming back.
“Monsieur, little time!”
Why couldn’t she leave me alone? I had to make her shut up and let go of my hand.
“It doesn’t matter,” I rasped. “Do what you have to do.”
“You say yes to my help?”
I growled. What wasn’t she understanding? I could barely speak; why was she making me repeat myself?
“Yes. I give permission for you to… do whatever you have to.”
There was silence. I waited for her to release me, but she didn’t. Instead, she turned my head gently to the side.
“Oui, Monsieur,” she whispered.
Something sharp dug into my neck.
My eyes flew open. All I saw was her shoulder as she bent over me. Was she biting me?
On instinct, I raised a hand to grab her, and gasped. My veins were black.
At last, she let go. I fell back once again, but there was something with me this time. Something strong, spreading like the first stretch of sun through a land long locked in winter. It filled my body, and then it was gone.
And so was she.
When I next opened my eyes, I was stunned to see Norman beside me. His face, stretched with concern, suddenly bloomed into excited relief.
“You’re awake!” he cried. “Thank God, Harry! You’re awake!”
I glanced at myself, with considerably more ease than before. I was still wrapped in bandages, but breathing no longer hurt as terribly. The sun pierced my eyes, and my head felt as though it had been ground against a millstone, but it was in one piece. All of me was.
I looked around. I was in a new camp, the tents a little better structured than the bivouacs. More wounded were strewn on either side of me. A plethora of unpleasant smells choked the air: blood, vomit, diarrhoea, gangrene, bodily wastes… but the pungency was so real, it chased away any lingering notion that I was at death’s door. Somehow, incredibly, I had survived.
I squinted at the army doctors and nurses. Most were British, some French, but I saw no sign of Bernadette. Had I imagined her? I had hallucinated many things: black veins, Welsh seas, angels, winged creatures… all the crazed realities of any man who might find himself on the edge of life.
I went to sit up.
“No, no!” Norman said, grabbing my shoulders. “You must rest!”
“I can manage,” I insisted, and pushed him off. To my own surprise, I did – everything still hurt, but somehow, I knew it wouldn't spell my end.
Norman passed me a canteen and I downed all the contents in a few frantic gulps. Every swallow felt as though my muscles had been scoured with sand.
“Are you alright?” I asked.
Norman looked taken aback.
“Me? God, don’t worry about me! Are you alright?”
“I… I’m fine,” I said carefully. “I really am fine.”
Norman’s eyes glowed and he grasped my wrist.
“Harry, you pushed me out of the way,” he said. “You did this… you took a bullet for me. How can I ever repay you?”
Was that what had happened? I couldn’t remember. But I took his word for it and managed a smile.
“Well, you need to get through this,” I said. “You have a wife and son to take back to England.”
Norman bit his lip. For a moment, I thought he might cry. I could tell from the twitch in his muscles that he wanted to spring forward and embrace me. But he held himself in check, and instead shook my hand as gently as he could.
“I owe you everything,” he said.
“Then pay it back by doing your best to survive without me having to do this again,” I joked.
Norman chuckled. “Then how about one day, if you have a daughter, she marries my Jonathan? Or, heck, it can be our grandchildren!”
“Don’t count your chickens,” I replied. “Now, tell me what happened. Please tell me we won.”
“We did,” Norman assured.
I was so relieved, I had no more energy to stay upright. He helped me to lower myself back onto the stretcher. I groaned as the stitches tugged against my skin.
“It was a hard hit,” continued Norman. “We lost a couple of thousand men. I’m not sure about the French losses. We collected some of the Russian artillery, though. One step closer to Sebastopol.”
“Is that where we’re heading next?”
“That’s the idea. Lord Raglan and the others are already planning things.”
I suppressed a snort. They had better do a better job of preparing for that than what they had done thus far. I would tear out my hair if we received plans the night before the battle again.
My face must have been easy to read, because Norman took off his cap and smoothed his greasy hair.
“It was pure luck we won,” he admitted. “Luck and grit.”
“It can’t go on like this,” I said. “We shall need more than luck on our side if we’re to win the war.”
Norman’s eyes took on a strange sheen of both determination and humour.
“Of course, we’ll win,” he said with a half-smile. “How else will I get home and fetch my family?”
We shared a grin, then he got to his feet, promising to refill the canteen for me and come straight back. As he walked away, I checked my body once again, still stunned that I had survived.
How was it possible? I had taken a bullet to the chest. Had it missed all my vital organs? Yes, that must be it. There was no chance I would have survived if my heart or lung had been hit.
The thought of my heart stirred something within me. I pressed two fingers to my neck to feel it beating. The sensation brought a new sense of relief, such as I had never known before.
Then I felt something else and frowned. There was another strip of bandage around my neck, which I hadn’t noticed earlier.
I gingerly worked a finger underneath it and found a second wound, a few inches long, down my jugular. It was not from a bullet, however. It was clean and thin, as though made by a razor blade.
*
My recovery surprised everybody. In a matter of weeks, I was walking, and though I was slower than my comrades, I insisted I would be in shape to assist when we took Sebastopol. The Russians had already managed to regroup and prepare their defence, so it had been decided to undertake a protracted siege against the city. Once it was ours, the end of the entire campaign might be in sight.
The road into the Chersonese Peninsula was long. Many men fell mid-stride, plagued with exhaustion and cholera. More mass graves were dug and filled within hours. Others were carried away to army hospitals, and did not return. I hoped they might have survived and been sent home, but my pragmatic mind told me otherwise.
I tilted my helmet a little to take the glare of the sun off my face, then turned my attention to my hands. Since awakening after Alma, they had begun to pucker with a rash. It prickled, as though I had fallen into a bed of stinging nettles. The slightest twitch of my fingers made them itch, and I scratched so fiercely, I was no longer sure whether the redness was from my nails or not.
Sweat rash. Though it was October now, this wasnt was not a British October, with mild weather and shortening days. We were at the same latitude as the Mediterranean, and the southern autumn still burned like the height of a northern summer. It was a wonder I hadn’t broken out with such a rash earlier.
No matter how I tried to shade myself, the light burned my eyes. A furious headache pressed around my skull like a band; I could not bear to look in any direction without squinting. Invisible needles drove themselves through my tear ducts. Even the movement of my lashes as I blinked was painful. I was hyper-aware of everything: every stab; every itch; every touch of the sun upon my skin, as though it were a physical thing. I gasped with relief when dusk came.
We set up camp with the French on a hill near the road to Sebastopol. The following day, we would be taking separate paths: they would journey west to the Bay of Kamiesch, while the British continued south to Balaklava, to defend the right flank. It was the first step towards surrounding the city: the first step towards another bloody battle.
The soldiers mingled to bid farewell to our friends. We were allies, but unsure when we might next meet. I joined in for a while, then occupied myself by taking watch. There was little I would be able to do in the siege, at least for now, so I endeavoured to keep as useful as I could, doing what I could.
I left Norman and settled at the edge of camp. The darkness stretching before me was blissful on my eyes after the long hours of sun. I fancied I could see further; still make out details on the ground even though there was hardly any light to be had. The grass waved in a gentle western breeze and carried the faraway saline scent of the Black Sea. Once again, I was reminded of that night before Alma, playing a waiting game as I looked back from where we had come.
Then I saw movement and my stomach rolled over. I knew for certain it was not the enemy; they had all gone to Sebastopol. But as I looked closer, my breath became short, and I winced as my bruised ribs worked to compensate. It was so far away, I couldn’t be sure, but there were shadows against the night sky, aloft on wings.
My hand strayed to my hip. My rifle was back at the tent, but I had my revolver in a holster. But before I could draw, I heard footsteps, and turned in alarm to see a nurse approaching. She was dressed in French uniform, and took off her cap, sending red hair tumbling about her shoulders.
“Mademoiselle Trébuchet?” I said.
She smiled, but there was a steely look in her eyes.
“You remember, Monsieur.”
“Oui."
She stood beside me, then caught my wrist.
“No shoot,” she said. “They will not come closer.”
I frowned at her. “You can see them, too?”
She glanced at them and nodded. “Les démons.”
“I’m sorry?”
Bernadette licked her lips, then motioned to my collar and the wound concealed beneath it. I realised she was asking to check it and stooped a little so she could reach. As her fingers inspected my flesh, I recalled seeing her over me; the sharp slice along my neck.
“It heals,” she said, then took hold of my hands to see the rash. The same malady still covered her own.
She grimaced. “I am sorry. Cannot be helped. Price of being saved.”
I was taken aback. “What?”
Bernadette looked at me for a long moment. I tried to read her face as emotions chased themselves across it: guilt, relief, anxiety, knowledge… I could scarcely recognise one before the next took its place, like the pages of a book whipped into a frenzy by the wind.
At last, she let out a deep breath and spoke again.
“I am sorry I no come to you sooner. Busy with sick men. I tried,” she said, then groaned in frustration. “No good talk like this! May I try a thing?”
I struggled to follow. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“May I try a thing, Monsieur?”
“Yes. Oui… Try a thing,” I said in confusion. What was she doing?
Bernadette nodded, then looked intently into my eyes. I took a nervous step back. For a moment, I thought she might step forward and kiss me.
Do you hear me, Monsieur?
I cried out in fright. It was her voice, but inside my head.
I grabbed at my temples. Bernadette held up her hands, as though trying to calm a spooked horse.
No, no, please, don’t be afraid! I know this seems strange, but everything is fine.
“How are you doing that?” I demanded.
“Jones?” one of the men called over. “Is everything alright?”
I glanced between the camp and Bernadette. She didn’t take her eyes off me.
“Everything’s fine,” I said loudly. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
I waited a few seconds, until I was sure we were no longer being watched. Then I snatched Bernadette and pulled her a little further down the hill, until we were out of sight. Despite the darkness, I could still see her – not in great detail, but more than I should have been able to in such shadow.
“What the Hell was that?” I hissed.
Bernadette tapped her neck, on the same spot where my own wound was located. I heard her voice again, though her lips didn’t move an inch.
Can you understand me?
I nodded woodenly. How could this be possible? Not only could I hear her, I had perfect clarity. There was no broken English nor heavy French accent. Her words were as clear as though they were my own thoughts, and yet they were separate from me.
I’m sorry, Bernadette said. I did what I had to, to save your life. The hospitals would not have been enough. And I feel the worst of our work here is yet to come, Monsieur Henry.
I swallowed and tried to reply in the same way.
What did you do to me?
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, slowly. I recoiled in fright. Her irises had transformed blood red.
She tapped her neck again, then her teeth.
You can hear me like this because I have turned you. You are my juvenile now. There is a mental link between us.
Juvenile what? Turned me into what?
I think you know.
I scoffed. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is truth,” she snapped, and took hold of my wrist again.
I went to throw her off, but was stunned by her strength. It was more than a little woman like her should have had; more than some men I knew. I had the notion that, if she wanted to, she could hoist me off the ground as easily as picking up a child.
This is truth, she repeated, as firm as a schoolmarm. And I saved your life.
By what? I raised my hand to show the rash. Is this a part of it? And my eyes?
And your endurance. The condition gives an edge to survive others. Is a minor itch and headache not a bearable trade for survival, Monsieur?
You will not talk to me this way! I won’t hear it!
I will, because you need to hear it. You need to trust me. Tomorrow, I must leave, but I will remain with you this way, in the mind. It is important! Look at me!
I did. I stared into those eyes, crimson as the waters of Alma; glanced at her lips and imagined the teeth behind them.
This couldn’t be true. My rational brain fought against it like a wild animal resisting a cage. There was no such thing. It was impossible, against all science and reason.
And yet you see those winged ones over there, Bernadette said, pointing into the distance.
I pursed my lips. Hallucinations.
Then how do I also see them?
I’m sure there is some explanation.
Yes, there is. The one I am giving you, she snapped. Henry Jones, listen to me and listen well. I am exactly what you think I am. I have made you into exactly what you think you are. Those creatures which have been following us are like us, yet not – they are Upir, demons, husks. Lurking so they can pick off the weak. They are that way because they did not give permission. But you did.
I thought of when she had come to me, asked me to say yes to her help. I recalled the sharpness on my throat; the blackness in the veins on the back of my hand.
“What have you done to me?” I whispered. “I didn’t want… this.”
I tried to sound strong, but my voice betrayed me, wobbling like a boy about to cry.
Bernadette heard it and ducked her head so I had no choice but to look at her. Only when I did, did I realise the redness had disappeared from her eyes. They had returned to their previous colour – I noticed, for the first time, that they were brown, like the finest chocolate.
Neither did I, at first, she said. Like you, I said yes to save my life. Please understand, I mean you no harm. You were kind to me, and this is the only way I could help you. It will not last forever. You must simply remain close to me for a little while, and then, should you choose to become human again, I will restore you.
I swallowed anxiously. Restore me? Stay close to you? Have I struck some kind of infernal bargain with you?
Heavens, no, she assured. You cut me, I will bleed, just like you. I am a mere woman, a nurse, my dear Monsieur. I simply have the means to do a little more.
Then restore me now.
Her shoulders slumped. I cannot.
Balderdash! Restore me!
I will, she said earnestly, but I not now. The venom has settled within you. I cannot remove it until it returns to your bloodstream. That is why you must stay close to me.
She placed a hand on her bosom. And I promise you, on my life, before God and all the angels, I shall restore you, should you wish me to, as soon as that time comes.
I looked at her for a long time. I was sure the stars spun miles through the sky overhead in the long moments which hung between us. This could not be happening.
But it was.
My breath trembled. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry, to run, to slap her, to embrace her, to pinch myself and wake up to find it was all some fever dream after being shot. But when I tried that, nothing happened. I was still sat on the hillside, with the cloying humidity pressing on every inch of exposed skin, and the flying things hovering like black cut-outs against the sky.
What had she called them? Upir. Demons.
“Vampire,” I said aloud. I hoped giving the word breath and volume would make it seem a little more real.
Bernadette nodded. “Oui, Monsieur.”
I closed my eyes.
She took hold of my hand again, gentler now.
I promise I will stand by your side, as you stood by your friend’s side. Can you forgive me?
It was a mighty question, as towering and tall as the heights of Alma. But there was an earnestness which was not lost on me, and despite myself, my own pragmatism once again made itself known.
It might be impossible, yet I was living proof of it. And yes, she had saved my life – in an unorthodox manner, but saved it nonetheless. What would have been better? To keep to normality, and have died? Even if the shot hadn’t found my chest, had I lost a limb and been permanently maimed, would I have been happy then? Happier than the prospect of surviving, with something which she had already sworn to reverse?
Perceived as such, I found a foothold. It was not much, but it was something.
Life could certainly be taken for granted until the moment one must cling to it with all strength. And to think, I was so prepared, in my purgatory, to slip quietly into the night!
But no. That was not me. It was no false arrogance of my youth, nor of my Britishness. It was something deeper, of myself alone, which determined that I would live. A second chance had been given to me, and I would hold that gift within myself for as long as I could. I would manage to the best of my ability, with what I had, where I was.
“Oui,” I breathed. “What must I do now?”
Bernadette shifted her weight so she was sitting in front of me, and a flicker of red returned to her eyes.
“I shall tell you.”
The road into the Chersonese Peninsula was long. Many men fell mid-stride, plagued with exhaustion and cholera. More mass graves were dug and filled within hours. Others were carried away to army hospitals, and did not return. I hoped they might have survived and been sent home, but my pragmatic mind told me otherwise.
I tilted my helmet a little to take the glare of the sun off my face, then turned my attention to my hands. Since awakening after Alma, they had begun to pucker with a rash. It prickled, as though I had fallen into a bed of stinging nettles. The slightest twitch of my fingers made them itch, and I scratched so fiercely, I was no longer sure whether the redness was from my nails or not.
Sweat rash. Though it was October now, this wasnt was not a British October, with mild weather and shortening days. We were at the same latitude as the Mediterranean, and the southern autumn still burned like the height of a northern summer. It was a wonder I hadn’t broken out with such a rash earlier.
No matter how I tried to shade myself, the light burned my eyes. A furious headache pressed around my skull like a band; I could not bear to look in any direction without squinting. Invisible needles drove themselves through my tear ducts. Even the movement of my lashes as I blinked was painful. I was hyper-aware of everything: every stab; every itch; every touch of the sun upon my skin, as though it were a physical thing. I gasped with relief when dusk came.
We set up camp with the French on a hill near the road to Sebastopol. The following day, we would be taking separate paths: they would journey west to the Bay of Kamiesch, while the British continued south to Balaklava, to defend the right flank. It was the first step towards surrounding the city: the first step towards another bloody battle.
The soldiers mingled to bid farewell to our friends. We were allies, but unsure when we might next meet. I joined in for a while, then occupied myself by taking watch. There was little I would be able to do in the siege, at least for now, so I endeavoured to keep as useful as I could, doing what I could.
I left Norman and settled at the edge of camp. The darkness stretching before me was blissful on my eyes after the long hours of sun. I fancied I could see further; still make out details on the ground even though there was hardly any light to be had. The grass waved in a gentle western breeze and carried the faraway saline scent of the Black Sea. Once again, I was reminded of that night before Alma, playing a waiting game as I looked back from where we had come.
Then I saw movement and my stomach rolled over. I knew for certain it was not the enemy; they had all gone to Sebastopol. But as I looked closer, my breath became short, and I winced as my bruised ribs worked to compensate. It was so far away, I couldn’t be sure, but there were shadows against the night sky, aloft on wings.
My hand strayed to my hip. My rifle was back at the tent, but I had my revolver in a holster. But before I could draw, I heard footsteps, and turned in alarm to see a nurse approaching. She was dressed in French uniform, and took off her cap, sending red hair tumbling about her shoulders.
“Mademoiselle Trébuchet?” I said.
She smiled, but there was a steely look in her eyes.
“You remember, Monsieur.”
“Oui."
She stood beside me, then caught my wrist.
“No shoot,” she said. “They will not come closer.”
I frowned at her. “You can see them, too?”
She glanced at them and nodded. “Les démons.”
“I’m sorry?”
Bernadette licked her lips, then motioned to my collar and the wound concealed beneath it. I realised she was asking to check it and stooped a little so she could reach. As her fingers inspected my flesh, I recalled seeing her over me; the sharp slice along my neck.
“It heals,” she said, then took hold of my hands to see the rash. The same malady still covered her own.
She grimaced. “I am sorry. Cannot be helped. Price of being saved.”
I was taken aback. “What?”
Bernadette looked at me for a long moment. I tried to read her face as emotions chased themselves across it: guilt, relief, anxiety, knowledge… I could scarcely recognise one before the next took its place, like the pages of a book whipped into a frenzy by the wind.
At last, she let out a deep breath and spoke again.
“I am sorry I no come to you sooner. Busy with sick men. I tried,” she said, then groaned in frustration. “No good talk like this! May I try a thing?”
I struggled to follow. “I don’t understand what you mean.”
“May I try a thing, Monsieur?”
“Yes. Oui… Try a thing,” I said in confusion. What was she doing?
Bernadette nodded, then looked intently into my eyes. I took a nervous step back. For a moment, I thought she might step forward and kiss me.
Do you hear me, Monsieur?
I cried out in fright. It was her voice, but inside my head.
I grabbed at my temples. Bernadette held up her hands, as though trying to calm a spooked horse.
No, no, please, don’t be afraid! I know this seems strange, but everything is fine.
“How are you doing that?” I demanded.
“Jones?” one of the men called over. “Is everything alright?”
I glanced between the camp and Bernadette. She didn’t take her eyes off me.
“Everything’s fine,” I said loudly. “Nothing to be concerned about.”
I waited a few seconds, until I was sure we were no longer being watched. Then I snatched Bernadette and pulled her a little further down the hill, until we were out of sight. Despite the darkness, I could still see her – not in great detail, but more than I should have been able to in such shadow.
“What the Hell was that?” I hissed.
Bernadette tapped her neck, on the same spot where my own wound was located. I heard her voice again, though her lips didn’t move an inch.
Can you understand me?
I nodded woodenly. How could this be possible? Not only could I hear her, I had perfect clarity. There was no broken English nor heavy French accent. Her words were as clear as though they were my own thoughts, and yet they were separate from me.
I’m sorry, Bernadette said. I did what I had to, to save your life. The hospitals would not have been enough. And I feel the worst of our work here is yet to come, Monsieur Henry.
I swallowed and tried to reply in the same way.
What did you do to me?
She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them, slowly. I recoiled in fright. Her irises had transformed blood red.
She tapped her neck again, then her teeth.
You can hear me like this because I have turned you. You are my juvenile now. There is a mental link between us.
Juvenile what? Turned me into what?
I think you know.
I scoffed. “This is ridiculous.”
“This is truth,” she snapped, and took hold of my wrist again.
I went to throw her off, but was stunned by her strength. It was more than a little woman like her should have had; more than some men I knew. I had the notion that, if she wanted to, she could hoist me off the ground as easily as picking up a child.
This is truth, she repeated, as firm as a schoolmarm. And I saved your life.
By what? I raised my hand to show the rash. Is this a part of it? And my eyes?
And your endurance. The condition gives an edge to survive others. Is a minor itch and headache not a bearable trade for survival, Monsieur?
You will not talk to me this way! I won’t hear it!
I will, because you need to hear it. You need to trust me. Tomorrow, I must leave, but I will remain with you this way, in the mind. It is important! Look at me!
I did. I stared into those eyes, crimson as the waters of Alma; glanced at her lips and imagined the teeth behind them.
This couldn’t be true. My rational brain fought against it like a wild animal resisting a cage. There was no such thing. It was impossible, against all science and reason.
And yet you see those winged ones over there, Bernadette said, pointing into the distance.
I pursed my lips. Hallucinations.
Then how do I also see them?
I’m sure there is some explanation.
Yes, there is. The one I am giving you, she snapped. Henry Jones, listen to me and listen well. I am exactly what you think I am. I have made you into exactly what you think you are. Those creatures which have been following us are like us, yet not – they are Upir, demons, husks. Lurking so they can pick off the weak. They are that way because they did not give permission. But you did.
I thought of when she had come to me, asked me to say yes to her help. I recalled the sharpness on my throat; the blackness in the veins on the back of my hand.
“What have you done to me?” I whispered. “I didn’t want… this.”
I tried to sound strong, but my voice betrayed me, wobbling like a boy about to cry.
Bernadette heard it and ducked her head so I had no choice but to look at her. Only when I did, did I realise the redness had disappeared from her eyes. They had returned to their previous colour – I noticed, for the first time, that they were brown, like the finest chocolate.
Neither did I, at first, she said. Like you, I said yes to save my life. Please understand, I mean you no harm. You were kind to me, and this is the only way I could help you. It will not last forever. You must simply remain close to me for a little while, and then, should you choose to become human again, I will restore you.
I swallowed anxiously. Restore me? Stay close to you? Have I struck some kind of infernal bargain with you?
Heavens, no, she assured. You cut me, I will bleed, just like you. I am a mere woman, a nurse, my dear Monsieur. I simply have the means to do a little more.
Then restore me now.
Her shoulders slumped. I cannot.
Balderdash! Restore me!
I will, she said earnestly, but I not now. The venom has settled within you. I cannot remove it until it returns to your bloodstream. That is why you must stay close to me.
She placed a hand on her bosom. And I promise you, on my life, before God and all the angels, I shall restore you, should you wish me to, as soon as that time comes.
I looked at her for a long time. I was sure the stars spun miles through the sky overhead in the long moments which hung between us. This could not be happening.
But it was.
My breath trembled. I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to cry, to run, to slap her, to embrace her, to pinch myself and wake up to find it was all some fever dream after being shot. But when I tried that, nothing happened. I was still sat on the hillside, with the cloying humidity pressing on every inch of exposed skin, and the flying things hovering like black cut-outs against the sky.
What had she called them? Upir. Demons.
“Vampire,” I said aloud. I hoped giving the word breath and volume would make it seem a little more real.
Bernadette nodded. “Oui, Monsieur.”
I closed my eyes.
She took hold of my hand again, gentler now.
I promise I will stand by your side, as you stood by your friend’s side. Can you forgive me?
It was a mighty question, as towering and tall as the heights of Alma. But there was an earnestness which was not lost on me, and despite myself, my own pragmatism once again made itself known.
It might be impossible, yet I was living proof of it. And yes, she had saved my life – in an unorthodox manner, but saved it nonetheless. What would have been better? To keep to normality, and have died? Even if the shot hadn’t found my chest, had I lost a limb and been permanently maimed, would I have been happy then? Happier than the prospect of surviving, with something which she had already sworn to reverse?
Perceived as such, I found a foothold. It was not much, but it was something.
Life could certainly be taken for granted until the moment one must cling to it with all strength. And to think, I was so prepared, in my purgatory, to slip quietly into the night!
But no. That was not me. It was no false arrogance of my youth, nor of my Britishness. It was something deeper, of myself alone, which determined that I would live. A second chance had been given to me, and I would hold that gift within myself for as long as I could. I would manage to the best of my ability, with what I had, where I was.
“Oui,” I breathed. “What must I do now?”
Bernadette shifted her weight so she was sitting in front of me, and a flicker of red returned to her eyes.
“I shall tell you.”
To Sebastopol the Russian fled.
He left the wounded and the dead,
And the rivers there they all ran red
From the blood that spilled on Alma.
Let Britain's sons long remember
The glorious 20th of September.
We caused the Russian to surrender,
All upon the Heights of Alma.
He left the wounded and the dead,
And the rivers there they all ran red
From the blood that spilled on Alma.
Let Britain's sons long remember
The glorious 20th of September.
We caused the Russian to surrender,
All upon the Heights of Alma.
With respect to the memories of Lord FitzRoy Somerset (1788-1855), Lieutenant-General Sir George Brown (1790-1865), and all who fought and fell in the Crimean War of 1853-1856.