Blood and Ice

CHAPTER TWENTY

Early September, 1854

THE HORSES. It was the terrible toll taken on the horses that drove Lieutenant Copley nearly mad.

His beautiful Ajax, along with eighty-five others, had been driven down into the hold of Her Majesty's Ship Henry Wilson- a small, dark, and unbearably foul place-where almost no advance preparations had been made. There were no stalls constructed, no head collars, only tethering ropes, and even on a calm sea, the horses brushed up against each other, stepping on their neighbors’ hooves, struggling to lift their heads clear of the herd. But once the ships of the British fleet had hit the gales in the Bay of Biscay, the horses went wild with fear. Sinclair, along with many of the other cavalry officers-the ones who were not laid up with fevers or seasickness-were down in the hold, standing at their horses’ heads, trying desperately to calm and control them. But it was not possible. Each time the vessel rolled, the poor panicked beasts were pitched forward against the manger, whinnying in terror and stamping their feet on the creaking, wet boards. Cascades of water flooded down from the hatches, rivers of it sloshed around their legs, and every time one of the horses fell, it was the devil's own business to get him righted again. When Ajax went down, tumbling in a heap atop Winslow's horse, it took several soldiers and sailors to get them separated and standing once more. Sergeant Hatch, the India Man, seemed to be down in the hold at all times-Sinclair wondered if he ever slept or went up on deck for a breath of air that didn't stink of dung and blood and moldering hay-but even he was unable to stem the losses. Every night horses died-of broken bones, panic, and heat prostration (there was almost no ventilation belowdecks)- and were unceremoniously thrown overboard the next day. All the way to the Mediterranean, the British fleet had left a trail of bloated, floating carcasses in its wake.

And Sinclair, though he knew he was only a young unproven lieutenant, could not help but wonder why the army had not requisitioned steamers to make the voyage. From what Rutherford had told him (and Rutherford's father had been a lord of the admiralty under the Duke of Wellington), a steamer could make a trip in ten to twelve days that it would take a sailing ship a month or more to do. Even if it had taken a fortnight to round up enough steamships, so much of this appalling damage could have been avoided, and the troops-with their horses, in decent condition-could have arrived on the Turkish shores, ready to do battle, sooner than they would arrive now.

But no such thoughts appeared to have occurred to the command, nor to the throngs of onlookers who had attended the army's departure. When Sinclair marched aboard the transports, in the company of the Light Brigade, the Heavy Brigade, the 60th Rifles, and the 11th Hussars, he too had been caught up in the gay atmosphere at the docks. The war, everyone believed, would be so brief that it might be over before some of them had even had the chance to use their lance or sword or rifle; the Russians, it was said, were such a lackluster fighting force that most of them had to be forced onto the field at gunpoint. Le Maitre had told Sinclair that the Russian infantry's rifles were dummies, made of wood, like the swords the brigade used in its field exercises. As a result, many of the English officers had received permission to bring their wives along on the mission, and the ladies were outfitted in their finest, most colorful dresses. Some brought their own maids and favorite horses with them. As Sinclair scanned the crowds lining the docks and quayside, searching for a spot of pale yellow, he saw cases of wine, bouquets of flowers, and straw baskets filled with hothouse fruit being brought aboard. Hundreds of people were holding pennants of the Union Jack, others were wildly waving caps and bonnets and lace handkerchiefs, and a military band was playing martial tunes. The sun was shining brightly, and he could hardly wait for the adventure before him to unfold.

“Moira tells me it's unlikely Miss Nightingale will give them leave,” Captain Rutherford said, leaning on his elbows at the rail and divining what Sinclair was looking for.

Sinclair glanced at his companion, whose brow was gleaming with sweat.

“I told her that this Miss Nightingale was no patriot, then,” Rutherford concluded, taking his fur pelisse from his shoulder and laying it across the rail.

Sinclair had never quite understood what bond existed between the captain and Miss Mulcahy While his own connection to Eleanor Ames was in itself unusual-and, as anyone would have told Sinclair, held no promise in practical terms-Rutherford's attachment to the buxom, earthy nurse Mulcahy was stranger by far. Rutherford came from a very prominent family in Dorset-he was destined for a peerage-and his family would be appalled at this liaison. Yes, it was, of course, understood that cavalry officers had their pick of the ladies in town, and that they often indulged in reckless, even unwholesome, affairs, but it was also understood that the young men would eventually come to their senses, especially on the eve of a great foreign expedition. It was the perfect time, and the perfect means, to cut the cord. It was one of the signal advantages to being in the army.

But behind Rutherford's bluster, Sinclair thought he had detected an oddly sentimental streak. He was not a man comfortable in the salons to which he was regularly invited, or around women in general-Sinclair had once seen him clumsily upend a punch bowl on a young lady to whom he was being introduced. He much preferred the life of the barracks, with its bawdy talk and camaraderie, and there was something about Miss Moira Mulcahy, for all her working-class ways, that appealed to him. Indeed, if Sinclair had to hazard a guess, it was that very lack of refinement that appealed to him… coupled, of course, with her bountiful bosom, always and ever on display. It occurred to Sinclair that he might be better off trying to spot an expanse of creamy flesh in the dockside mob than the new yellow dress that Eleanor might accompany Moira in.

Lord Cardigan, commander of the 11th Hussars, could be seen on horseback, in all his finery, surrounded by aides-de-camp, bellowing out orders. He was a vain, handsome man, with a full russet moustache and side-whiskers, and he rode erect in the saddle. But he was known for his hot temper and his fanatical devotion to protocol and foolish points of honor; indeed, he had created a scandal at an officers’ mess, the repercussions of which haunted him still. Lord Cardigan insisted that only champagne might be served at his table, and not the black bottles of porter that many of the soldiers, particularly those who had served in India, enjoyed. When a general's aide requested Moselle, which was placed on the table in its own black bottle rather than being decanted first, Lord Cardigan mistook it for porter, exploded into a rage, and insulted a captain of the regiment. Before the affair blew over, all of London had heard about it, and laughed. Lord Cardigan could not attend the theater, or even walk his Irish wolfhounds down the streets of Brunswick Square, without hearing the occasional catcall of “black bottle!” The men under his command particularly resented it, and often fell into brawls when so taunted.

Though the 17th Lancers of the Light Brigade were nominally under the command of Lord Lucan, Cardigan's stubborn brother-in-law, Lieutenant Copley suspected that they, the hapless soldiers, were actually pawns in a bitter family rivalry.

“Here,” Rutherford said, to a passing naval officer, “may I borrow that?”

The navy man, perhaps so bowled over by the richness of Rutherford's costume that he was unable to determine a particular rank, immediately relinquished the telescope he carried, and went on about his duties.

Rutherford raised the telescope and scanned the crowd, from the top of the High Street to the bottom of the loading ramps. There was the unending tramp of the soldiers’ feet, the neighing and huffing of the horses, the vagrant notes of the Inniskilling anthem, played by the military band and blown out to sea on the swirling winds. An order was shouted out, relayed around the decks several times, and dozens of sailors began rounding up the stragglers, among whom quick embraces and mementoes were exchanged with family and well-wishers; the heavy ramps were sealed off, then hauled aboard the boats. Dockhands unknotted the thick mooring ropes and threw their loose ends aside. But Rutherford's search had apparently come up empty-handed.

“I shall have a word with this Florence Nightingale when next I see her,” Rutherford said in a huff.

“Let me try,” Sinclair said, taking the telescope in hand. He lifted it, and spotted first the sight of a horse's rump-Lord Cardigan's horse, as it happened-traveling back toward town. The great lord, scuttlebutt had it, would follow the troops later, in the more comfortable accommodations afforded by a French steamer.

But Sinclair was having no more luck than Rutherford. For a moment, he thought he saw Frenchie's lady friend, Dolly, but the size of the bonnet made it too hard to be sure. Even Frenchie had become separated from his friends in the melee, and was presumably lost somewhere on the crowded deck of the Henry Wilson. Sinclair saw a little boy holding his mother's hand and smiling bravely, and another who was far more intent on trying to catch an injured sparrow that was hopping between the wheels of a commissary wagon.

More orders were shouted, and a dozen sailors scrambled up the rigging, loosing the sails and letting them unfurl with a great flapping noise. The ship creaked and groaned, like a great stiff giant coming to life, and a ribbon of brackish water now ran between it and the dock. Sinclair swung the telescope from one end of the harbor to the other, stopping once at a yellow parasol, and again at what turned out to be a yellow placard advertising a show in Drury Lane.

“I wonder when we shall see our first fight,” Rutherford said. “I hope it's not some skirmish, all close quarters and no chance to use the lance properly.” The lance had been a relatively recent innovation, modeled, as were their uniforms, on the Polish lancers who had so distinguished themselves at Waterloo.

Sinclair muttered his assent, while continuing the search. He was just about to give it up-the lurching and swaying of the vessel made it difficult to hold any image still-when he saw an open wagon rumble down a side alley, and two figures, one in yellow, one in a white apron, jump off its end and run toward the docks. With one hand, he held on to the railing and with the other trained the telescope on the running girls. The one in front was Eleanor, clutching her nurse's hat, and Moira, holding her skirts up and away from her ankles, lumbered behind.

The Henry Wilson was now a hundred yards or more from the dock, and the flag flying from its stern obscured his view. But he could tell that the girls’ eyes were trained, and their steps directed, toward one of the other transports leaving the dock. Eleanor, he could see, had stopped a man in uniform, and after a few hasty words with him, she had taken Moira by the arm and turned her instead toward the dock from which the 17th Lancers’ ship had just departed.

The flag rippled and snapped in the gathering sea breeze, and Sinclair shouted to Rutherford, “They're there! Coming toward the dock!”

Rutherford craned his neck over the bulwark railing, and Sinclair tucked the telescope under one arm and waved in wide, sweeping motions.

More sails cascaded down from the topmasts and the ship instantly pitched forward, gaining speed. The land was being left behind, and the people on it were being quickly reduced to specks.

Sinclair lifted the telescope one more time, and found the bright spot of yellow one last time. He willed her to look in his direction- she seemed to be staring toward the bulging sails for some reason- and just as the ship plunged into the first of the waves to skirt the breakwater, casting a mist of chilling spray over everyone on the decks, he thought she had indeed turned her green-eyed gaze toward him. Or at least he chose to think so.

The weeks that followed were the most miserable in Sinclair's young life. He had enlisted in the army to ride for glory and, truth be told, for the chance to parade around town in the dashing uniform of a cavalryman, but not for this-not to be imprisoned in the stinking bowels of an overcrowded ship. Not to eat cold salt pork and mealy biscuits-once you were done plucking out all the weevils, there was nothing left but a handful of crumbs-day after day, and to spend night after night in a wretched, dark hold, fighting to keep his terrified horse from dying. He thought longingly of his London life, his card games and dog fights and evenings at the Salon d'Aphrodite. (Throwing Fitzroy through the window had become the stuff of regimental legend.) When the ship's steward served him out his pitiful daily ration of rum, he thought of the fine port at the Longchamps Club, and cold champagne. When the first mate-a commoner, no less-upbraided him for smoking a cigar belowdecks, he thought of the rich humidor kept in the company barracks-not to mention the riding crop he would have liked to use on the man who had just dared to speak to him like that. The army, despite the occasional chafing he'd felt at its myriad rules and regulations, had served him well till then… but with every hour aboard the filthy, pitching vessel, something was changing in him. In his breast, he felt a growing resentment, a sense of having been cheated, misled.

He could see the spirits of his friends being dampened, too. Frenchie, once so quick to whistle a tune or make a joke, lay in his swaying hammock, green as a cricket pitch, clutching his stomach. Rutherford, ordinarily full of bluster and noise, spoke less confidently, when he spoke at all. Many of the others-Winslow, Martins, Cartwright, Mills-moved about the ship like ghosts, their faces ashen, their clothing soaked, and while the air on deck was undoubtedly fresher, there was the constant spectacle of dead horses-and increasingly men, too, who had fallen to dysentery, colic, or some other affliction-being dragged to the gunwales and tossed, like refuse from a dustbin, into the churning sea. A career in Her Majesty's navy, now that he had been able to see it so closely, was something Sinclair could not fathom.

The only one who seemed to weather it all was Sergeant Hatch, the India man who was scorned by the senior staff and officers. Sinclair knew that his fraternizing with the man made him a bit suspect, too, and Rutherford had gone so far as to warn him not to make the friendship so plain, but Sinclair found that Hatch's company anchored him in a way. Hatch had long ago accepted his lot, in life and in the army; he knew what was thought of him, what was required of him, and how to go about doing it. And while he was sufficiently cognizant of their respective stations not to seek out Sinclair, he always seemed, in his own reserved way, to be glad to see him when they did meet-especially as they were both great admirers of Captain Lewis Edward Nolan, whose theories of horse training had lately begun to be widely appreciated. What had long been done with the whip and spur, Nolan accomplished with a kind word, a soothing gesture, and a lump or two of sugar. His methods, chiefly developed in Austria where he had served under the Archduke, were making their way through the British, and reputedly even the American, cavalry, and it had been a point of honor to return him to England's own service. He was now attached to the 15th Hussars, and traveling, as were they all, into the Black Sea.

“I saw the man himself,” Sergeant Hatch observed, as he held out a handful of barley for his own charger, Abdullah. As with nearly everything else, the fleet had sailed without enough forage for the horses, so that in addition to their other torments, the animals were nearly starved. “There now,” Hatch said to his horse, as its tongue lapped his hand, desperately searching for more. He stroked its muzzle. “No more till tomorrow.”

“And was he the finest rider you've ever seen?” Sinclair asked. “I'm told that no one can hold a candle to Nolan.”

Sergeant Hatch smiled, and said, “He was only reconnoitering with Lord Raglan's aides-de-camp, so it would be difficult to say.”

Sinclair felt, as he often did with Hatch, that he sounded like a boy.

“But yes, he did have a very natural way with his horse. Almost no motion in his hands or feet, but the animal always knew what was wanted of him.”

Abdullah stretched his lean neck out and nudged Hatch on his shoulder, hard, and Hatch stepped back. “Maybe we ought to go up,” he said, uncharacteristically. “If we stay down here, the poor thing will try to eat my epaulettes.” He said it as if it were a joke, but they both knew that it was not.

As they clambered up on deck, they had to step over the bodies of several feverish soldiers-the infirmary such as it was, had long ago been filled-and they heard a splash as another body, in a canvas shroud, was heaved overboard. When the first casualties of the journey had been consigned to the deep, the Dead March in Saul had been played by a few members of the military band. But once the numbers had grown, and the burials at sea had become such a commonplace event, the officers had curtailed that practice. As Sinclair had overheard the ship's captain confide to an aide, “Morale is low enough already, and I shall go mad if I hear that damned tune again.”

Hatch and Sinclair found a few square feet of deck, where they could sit with their backs against a mast while Hatch filled his pipe with a sweet-smelling tobacco he'd become accustomed to in India. Winslow sauntered past and gave Sinclair an odd look. Sinclair glared back.

Hatch noted the exchange, and said, “You do yourself no favor, Lieutenant, consorting with the likes of me.”

“I'll consort with whomever I please.”

Hatch lit his pipe. “They don't like to be reminded.”

“Of what?”

“That they have not been blooded yet.” He took a puff on the pipe, and the strange aroma of the weed wafted into the air. “And, I suppose, of Chillianwallah.”

Even Sinclair had not known that Sergeant Hatch had served in that battle-one of the British cavalry's worst disasters. From the scandalous reports that circulated at the time, a brigade of light cavalry had advanced, without taking the precaution of sending skirmishers out to scout the terrain, against a powerful Sikh army in the foothills of the Himalayas. Suddenly confronted by a formidable array of enemy horsemen, the squadrons in the center of the front line had either balked, or received orders to retreat-it was never clear-and wheeled around, only to collide with the ranks behind them. The Sikhs, famous for taking no quarter, raised their razor-sharp kirpans and charged. In the general confusion that embroiled the British forces, two British regiments, and their Bengali counterparts, turned tail and fled, overrunning their own gun batteries at the rear, and sacrificing, along with hundreds of lives, three regimental colors. Though the action was five years in the past, the memory of it smarted still.

“That's why I keep this under my shirt,” Hatch said, lifting a chain from which dangled a silver military medal stamped PUNJAB CAMPAIGN, 1848-9. He dropped it back out of sight. “Every man who survived that day is looking for the chance to redeem himself.”

There was a cry from the crow's nest, carried down to them on the wind, which was picked up and echoed by several of the naval officers on deck. Sinclair and Hatch quickly got up and went to the starboard rail; the men who could stand were jostling for elbow room as a hazy mist over the water dissipated, revealing the rolling shoreline of the Crimea, and a flotilla of British ships that had already arrived and anchored there. As the Henry Wilson furled its topgallants and royal sails, and glided into the tranquil waters, Sinclair could hear the occasional bugle call in the distance and see the glitter of weaponry on the beach; the disembarkation had already begun, and Sinclair felt a quickening of his own blood. From what he could discern on the cliffs above, the Crimea was a land of vast, gently undulating steppes, devoid of trees or shrub, and consequently ideal for cavalry maneuvers. He longed to bring Ajax up out of the hold and let him graze on the pastures there and run free on the seemingly serene hills.

It was only when the ship grew closer, and the anchor chains were loosed, that Sinclair noticed something else, something bobbing about in the waters of the bay. At first he took it for some form of aquatic life-were there seals here? or dolphins?-until one of the shapes, sinking and rising like a buoy, was drawn toward the bow of the Henry Wilson. As he watched, it slowly made its way along the length of the ship, caught in the swirls and eddies, bumping against the wooden hull, then spinning away. And he saw suddenly that it was the head and shoulders of a soldier in his sodden red tunic. The lifeless head lolled from one shoulder to the other, the cheeks were hollow, the glassy eyes stared. And then it was gone, past the stern, moving out to sea.

But there were many others, bobbing about like hideous red apples in a barrel.

A sailor standing at the rail next to Sinclair crossed himself. “It's the cholera,” he muttered. “They're too dangerous to bury, or burn.”

Sinclair turned to Hatch, whose teeth were firmly clenched on his pipe.

“But… this?” Sinclair asked.

Hatch took the pipe from his lips. “They're weighted down before they're thrown overboard,” Hatch said, “and they're meant to sink. But sometimes the weights aren't enough.”

“And they do swell up,” said the sailor in a sober voice. “That's when they come back, some of ‘em, for a last look about.”

Sinclair looked out over the busy harbor, where ships and transports were being unloaded and troops ferried to shore in white rowboats, where flags rippled in the ocean breeze and bayonets glistened in the bright sunlight… and then down again at the terrible flotsam rising and falling on the whitecapped waves.

“What's the name of this place?” he said, sure he would never forget it, and the sailor chuckled mirthlessly.

Touching a finger to his brow before turning away, the man said, “It's called Calamita Bay.”