Patrick Mercer - To Do and Die

‘To the skin, sir.’ Eddington had produced a towel from his haversack with which he was rubbing vigorously at his feet. He'd undone the straps that held his trousers tight below the instep of his boots, now the bits of leather and tiny buckles flailed around his ankles. ‘But Colour-Sergeant McGucken had the presence of mind to tell the men to keep their pouches above their heads, so our ammunition should be sound; he's just checking it now.’

In the background McGucken, apparently totally unaffected by the ordeal by brine, stalked amongst the sprawling troops reminding the sergeants to inspect every man's supply of wax-paper-wrapped rounds.

‘You're lucky to have McGucken, you know, Eddington.’ Hume looked over as the Scot went quietly about his business.

‘I know, sir, we got a good deal when he came to us from the Thirty-Sixth,’ Eddington replied.

‘He was particularly good on the rafts, sir.’ Morgan interjected. ‘Most of the boys were bloody terrified of the waves but he just took the rise out of them and kept them calm.’ Morgan had been surprised how scared the men had been of the sea, until he realized how few of them could swim. Every officer had been taught the gentlemanly art of swimming just as surely as they had learnt to ride a horse, but other than for some farmers' boys, it was a skill that few of the soldiers had mastered.

‘Yes, he's a good fellow,’ Hume continued, ‘I have to say, if any of the boys had been dunked with sixty-five pounds of shot and kit on their backs, I don't suppose we'd have seen them again – not alive at least. Now, let me know when you're ready to move, Eddington, I'm amazed that we've had no interference from the Russians thus far,’ Hume added before moving off to have much the same conversation with Number Six Company close by.

As the 95th had come ashore, they had seen the Rifles in the sand-dunes above the beach, their dark green uniforms bobbing about the rough grass on guard against an expected counter-attack, whilst the French skirmishers had done the same, their bugles shrieking incessantly in a way that was to become all too familiar to the British. But only a few seedy Cossacks on hairy ponies had looked on until the first Allied troops appeared – providing just enough excitement to distract the men from their sopping clothes.

‘Dear God, it's starting to rain, now …’ Eddington looked up at the dark, Crimean skies, ‘… as if we're not wet enough already. Right, you two, I want sentries posted and the men in their blankets as soon as we're stood down by the adjutant. Don't let the men sit around yarning, it'll be a hard day tomorrow and they'll need as much sleep as possible.’

The two subalterns saluted and moved off to join their men. Soon, with their weapons piled in little pyramids, the troops were bedded down, all of the regiment's seven companies stretched next to each other. Morgan looked at the blanket-wrapped forms and was reminded of one vast farrow of grey piglets. Nobody was going to get much sleep with the enemy to hand and the rain setting-in, he thought, but at least they looked tidy, a sergeant's dream.

Men settled and sentries posted, Morgan flung himself down next to the spitting camp fire that the servants had managed to light for the officers. Keenan and the other batmen were stirring at a stew made from the pork that everyone – officers and soldiers – had been issued before they disembarked, the smell of which seemed like ambrosia. The light played off their faces. Collars turned up against the wind and wet, soft caps pulled down hard, from almost every pair of lips jutted either pipe or cigar. Keenan had adopted the old soldiers' wheeze of smoking his little, black, clay pipe with the bowl pointing down away from the rain, bits of tobacco stuck to his stubbly lips.

‘Dear God, I shall never be able to wear this in Dublin again.’ Morgan, like all the other novices to war, was doing as he was told and wearing ‘Review Order’, his best set of everything. His swallow-tailed, scarlet coatee and heavy, bullion wings had made a serious hole in the Morgan family coffers and he could remember how he was made to twist and turn around for Father and the Staff at Glassdrumman in his new regimentals, self-conscious and suspicious of their smiles. He wore those very clothes now, strapped about with belts, bottles and bullets and topped by a soaked greatcoat.

‘The men seem happy enough now we're off that wretched ship.’ Carmichael, predictably, had the slimmest, most expensive of cheroots in his mouth. Even the smoke slid stylishly onto the breeze.

‘I'd be a damn sight happier for them if they could get a decent night's sleep, though. The bloody cholera will be back unless we keep their strength up. Any sign of it, either of you?’ Captain Eddington was as much checking that his officers had done their jobs as showing concern for the men of his company.

The men's health had been much better at sea, but despite the kindness of the captain and the crew, it had become fashionable to complain about them, the ungainliness of the ship and about all matters nautical. Carmichael had been amongst the most vocal.

‘Carry out your normal rounds, you two, better make it every two hours this close to the Russians, and which one of you wants the stand-to slot?’

‘I'll do it, sir.’ Morgan knew that if the men slept little that night then the officers would sleep even less. It would be far better to be supervising the dawn ritual of every man standing-to-arms, kit packed, weapons cleaned and ready, than trying to get a last few minutes in drenched blankets.

He was right. Both subalterns took turn and turn about to visit the sentries – all of whom were gratifyingly alert – before rolling themselves up on the ground in an attempt to drift into unconsciousness. But when they rose in the dark just before dawn everyone was stiff, soggy and bug-eyed. They struggled almost gratefully into their belts and equipment, wiping the water off their rifles and checking their ammunition to make sure that the bundles of cartridges had kept dry. For half an hour they waited, poised, ready to fight until daylight was fully there, then they stood down. Damp charges were drawn from barrels, breakfast fires were lit, little domestic scenes sprang up everywhere.

The men's morning bacon was just starting to sizzle when two shots rang out. Hard in front of where the men were cooking and inside the chain of outlying sentries, the bangs had men scuttling for their kit and weapons, sergeants and corporals shouting, kettles knocked over, the whole company in a lather.

‘What in Christ's name is going on? Sar'nt Ormond, stop dithering and get the men back to their stand-to positions.’ That was precisely what the Sergeant was doing, but it didn't save him from a tongue-lashing from Carmichael.

‘Beat to arms, Pegg.’ Colour-Sergeant McGucken's crisp order to the drummer seemed to steady Carmichael a little until, it was discovered that the boy was missing. ‘Where's bloody Pegg, has anyone seen him?’ McGucken's voice was already tinged with concern.

‘His drum and kit's here, Colour-Sar'nt’ shouted one of the other drummers who had gone in search of the boy.

‘Just beat to arms then, son, he can't 'ave gone far.’

As the tattoo rolled out, the hubbub in the Grenadier Company's lines soon infected the rest of the regiment. In no time, all of the other companies were standing-to, Colonel Webber-Smith was calling for his horse and the adjutant, the transport ponies were having their bran and oat nosebags snatched away, the buglers taking up the call whilst damp, smoky cooking fires were stamped to embers.

The drizzle had cleared but the light was still not good as the sentries saw two figures, one tall and lean, one small and fat – and weighed down by the hare that he carried by its hind legs – come galloping towards them. Only the scarlet of their coats saved them from a jumpy volley, both picketshaving cocked their rifles and brought them to the aim at the sight of movement where only Russians should be.