Until the Colours Fade (52 page)

Squinting along the line of sight, Humphrey could feel the heat of the 32-pounder’s massive iron barrel scorching his cheek, but he did not move from his task until he saw, through the pall of white smoke hanging over the opposing batteries, a small bright jet of flame. Provided with this mark to train on, he raised his head and called out to the gun’s No. 1:

‘With two handspikes muzzle right three inches.’

Then, hurrying on to the second of his three guns, he gave similar orders; reckoning his third to be pointing true, he left its line unchanged. Immediately after his No. 1s reported back: ‘Ready,’ Humphrey shouted: ‘Fire!’ covering his ears before the lanyards jerked down the detonating hammers. A split second and the platforms danced and shuddered underfoot, the shock waves from the reports thumping his chest with the force of physical blows.

‘Stop the vent and sponge,’ he cried, still reeling, eyes
smarting
and ears ringing. Through the powder smoke he saw his men sponging and ramming home the fresh charge, then, staggering slightly, he bent once more to the trigger-line and neck-ring, watching tensely for the answering flash. When none came from the same point, he chose a new mark to train on.

For two days the naval batteries had been exchanging fire with the Quarries, a recently established Russian battery which owed its name to its cleverly concealed position among the mounds of waste from a disused gravel pit. This new
emplacement
was not only closer to the allied lines than any other enemy battery – so enabling Russian sharpshooters to pick off men
passing
by the embrasures in the British batteries – but also lay directly in the path of any future assault on the principal enemy bastions behind it. Since prolonged shelling had not yet
persuaded
the Russian gunners to withdraw, it was widely assumed that the position would have to be stormed with inevitable heavy loss of life.

On this, the second day of constant firing, Humphrey had been surprised and relieved to discover that terror, like other powerful emotions, did not last long at the same level of intensity and, although liable to return in sharp bowel-loosening spasms
with the approach of well-flighted shells or the infliction of a ghastly wound, it would recede again under constant pressure of laying guns, pointing them, and checking that his exhausted crews always entered the shells correctly, fuses outwards with the correct charges. Although Humphrey was responsible for three guns only, in a battery mounting twenty-seven guns, he was rarely without an immediate task to attend to.

As the morning brightened, a light wind began to clear the smoke, making it possible to see the effects of the firing. Now, instead of watching for flashes, Humphrey was able to direct his guns from the raised banquette, observing through a telescope where the shots fell, shouting out: ‘Twenty short … fifteen left,’ or whatever most precisely described the point of impact. A man standing on the banquette was partially exposed, but Humphrey felt far safer when he could see the Russian positions. Often after a perfect shot, fired right into an embrasure, he found himself wondering what his father would have thought, had he ever lived to see his milk-sop son, who had rarely been able to hit a
partridge
on the wing, engaged in sending eight-inch shells and 32-pound shot with deadly aim into an enemy battery. Such thoughts left him feeling both proud and sad. But although sure that his bearing under fire would have met with his father’s approval, Humphrey had noticed few alterations in Charles’s formal coldness.

Three or four days after Charles had assumed command in the batteries, a mortar shell had crashed down on the sandbagged roof of the magazine, setting the sacking alight. There had been six feet of earth, timber and sandbags between the flames and the powder, but the sight had momentarily paralysed everybody, until Humphrey had jumped up and started stamping out the fire; a moment later he had heard somebody behind him, and had looked round to see Charles helping, his eyes dark with anger, not directed at him, but at the men who had watched a boy do what they themselves should have done. Later, after only the briefest words of commendation, Charles had taken Humphrey aside and told him that, in future, if tempted to risk his life on impulse, he should remember that there would be many occasions, unlike the one just past, when the least dramatic course of action would be the best to pursue. An officer who lived longest, always served his country best. ‘Bravery without
discretion,
my lord, is as much use as modesty without clothes.’ Still greatly admiring Charles, Humphrey had been deeply wounded by what he took for a rebuke. Especially since, the
week before, Charles had picked up a shell, its fuse still burning, and had rolled it over the parapet into the ditch where it had instantly burst – an action undoubtedly saving lives, but one which had involved a risk many times greater than any to be
encountered
stamping out flames on the magazine roof. Humphrey was also hurt and perplexed that Charles, after being more friendly, had recently become as cold as ever.

Having loudly cheered a shot which had lifted an enemy gun clean off its carriage, Humphrey heard the look-out yell: ‘Mortar right,’ and flinging himself to the ground from the banquette, heard the sharp whistling of the revolving shell rise to a tearing shriek. With a deep earth-splitting roar a section of the parapet vanished in a red-black inferno of spouting soil and stones. In the choking dust, Humphrey saw a powderman’s arm hanging by his side, shattered from wrist to elbow; an assistant-sponger had been killed outright, almost torn in two pieces. Seeing the fierce bright flow of the dead man’s blood, Humphrey vomited and sank to his knees; but, as usual, within minutes of such an escape, relief soon outweighed shock and horror. An officer gave him some watered rum, and by the time the stretchers had left the battery, everybody’s spirits had started to rise again, as they latched onto inconsequential things to laugh about: anything unrelated to the incident. This soothing collective forgetfulness recurred after every casualty. Whenever obliged to leave his guns, Humphrey took deliberate care to avoid catching sight of the already darkening stains – just as, when a child, he had denied the power of a frightening picture in a book, by averting his eyes, or slamming it tight shut. To a greater or lesser extent, every man present survived by doing the same.

*

Charles rode past the Artillery Depot and, dismounting near the Light Division’s Camp, tethered his pony and squelched through the mud towards a huddle of tents and huts erected near the wall of the engineers’ siege park. Here on the heights, the rumble of gun-fire from the batteries echoed and reverberated like distant thunder; at times sounding deceptively close.

The shelter Charles made for was neither hut nor tent, but
resembled
the skilfully improvised structures put up by the Turks: having low stone walls, banked up with earth, and a crude but
effective
roof of planks, brushwood, and clay, covered over with skins and tarpaulins. Thrusting aside the canvas door-flap,
Charles fumbled with a box of lucifer matches in the windowless gloom, and lit a candle stuck to the top of an empty ammunition box. Then he sat down on the bed: a straw-filled mattress resting on an old door, raised off the mud floor on wooden chocks. The bedclothes consisted of a filthy quilt and a matted sheepskin. Next to the bed, a large black tin-chest, balanced on two casks, evidently served as a writing table; on its lid stood a brass
candlestick
, an inkpot and a mess of papers. On another empty meat cask was a cracked mirror, a razor and a broken horn comb full of greasy-looking hair. Two threadbare Turkish carpets had been nailed to the walls to keep out the draughts. Charles shifted his position to take out his watch, dislodging as he did so a pyramid of empty bottles at the foot of the bed. After passing five minutes inside, he went out again and paced up and down
impatiently.

Charles had visited Magnus’s hut for the first time on the day before the start of the bombardment, but, having failed to find his brother, had left him a note asking him to be there at ten o’clock two days later. It was now nearly twenty-past ten, and Charles did not have unlimited time to spare, since his turn of duty in the batteries began at noon. On the previous day he had spent sixteen hours under fire and afterwards the tautness of his nerves and a painfully throbbing head had kept him awake most of the night. Feeling as he did next morning, Charles would
normally
have gone to any lengths to avoid seeing his brother, but the arrival of George Braithwaite’s letter had left him in a state of such perplexity that he looked upon the coming interview as an absolute necessity.

When a dishevelled and bearded figure appeared, plodding up towards him from the direction of Balaclava, Charles did not at first recognise his brother until he was some twenty yards away. Their only meeting since Magnus’s arrival in the Crimea had been a chance encounter on the col: a brief and ill-tempered affair, since Charles had thought it all but certain that his brother’s sole motive in coming out was to embarrass his father.

Before going into the hut, they shook hands with awkward formality; and as their eyes met, Charles was once more shaken by his inability to hazard even an imprecise guess as to what Magnus might be thinking; a failure which at once made Charles feel uneasy and defensive. Inside, Magnus lit more candles and poured some madeira into a couple of chipped cups; having taken his, Charles handed his brother George’s letter, without comment, except for a thumb marking the relevant paragraph.
Magnus read it without apparent interest or surprise. Charles watched him intently, wishing that there was a window in the hut, so that he could note his expressions better.

‘Did you know Strickland was in Turkey?’

‘No.’

‘Does it not surprise you?’ snapped Charles. Magnus drained his cup and moving, Charles thought, with exaggerated slowness, poured himself more madeira, and held out the bottle to him.

‘I asked a question,’ returned Charles, covering his cup with his hand.

‘You did. The answer is, no. I am not surprised.’

‘How so?’

‘Because I suggested he came out with me as a war artist.’

‘But he didn’t.’

Magnus got up and offered Charles a cigar, which he declined.

‘That’s right. He obviously changed his mind later.’ Magnus smiled. ‘Not everybody’s as decisive as you, Charles.’

‘George seems to think he’s been in Stamboul for some time.’

Magnus bit the end off a cigar and removed a few strands of tobacco from his lips.

‘I doubt that. Otherwise he’d have sailed with me.’

Charles looked at him intently.

‘He seems to have preferred to be alone there.’

‘That’s certainly possible.’

‘What reason did he give for rejecting your suggestion?’

‘Professional pride.’

‘What?’

Magnus laughed at Charles’s confusion.

‘Artists can be very fastidious. He thought it would be
hackwork
.’

‘Strange that he changed his mind. War doesn’t alter much.’

Magnus lit his cigar with a candle, puffing and sucking slowly to make it burn evenly. His expression softened.

‘I can’t help you, Charles. Perhaps he went to Turkey to see Helen, perhaps he didn’t. If he did I can’t understand why he should have waited so many months.’

‘He waited until father had sailed for Sebastopol.’

‘You could be right.’

‘And that’s all you have to say?’

‘With men dying like flies, I have to admit that the thought of a few Embassy attachés sniggering at father’s expense doesn’t pose an immediate threat to my sanity. Obviously I’d rather it didn’t reach his ears, but I should imagine Helen will do her best
to see that it doesn’t.’

Charles got up and lifted the flap. Magnus followed him out into the open. The guns were still firing. Charles straightened his sword-belt and sighed.

‘Couldn’t stand it in there. I’m sorry.’ He turned to Magnus with sad care-worn eyes. ‘I know we all have other things to think of. It isn’t all fun in the batteries at the moment…. I know you don’t understand father’s feelings for her; but you ought to try. If there’s any sort of scandal the humiliation would finish him, and I don’t mean his career.’ A ragged company of men were marching from the Light Division’s Camp in the
direction
of the trenches, their boots making no sound on the damp earth. Over the brown treeless plateau the sky was darkening with a definite hint of sleet or snow. Charles looked at Magnus imploringly. ‘Couldn’t you go to Stamboul for a few days … write something about the hospitals so your time’s not wasted. Do that and talk to Strickland. I’m in no position to go.’

‘Suppose I go,’ murmured Magnus, ‘and suppose he tells me he’s seeing her, do you really expect me to tell you? You’d never betray a friend’s trust, so you can’t expect me to.’

‘Then I’ll have to go to father. I can’t leave him to find out through casual rumours.’

‘You may be wrong.’

‘How can I be? One week he refuses to come with you and the next promptly changes his mind when he knows the fleet’s sailed. Did Catherine tell you he once went looking for Helen at Hanley Park?’

‘Why not wait till he gets here? He’s sure to arrive in a week or so. Talk to him then. He’ll tell the truth.’

‘And betray her?’

‘Why not? If you wanted more than a casual flirtation with a married woman wouldn’t it serve your interest if her husband cast her off? He’s nothing to lose; no position to protect.’

While Charles considered this, Magnus blew on his fingers to warm them.

‘It won’t do, Magnus. All you’ve proved is that neither of us would know whether he was telling the truth. The plain fact is that I ought to have told father months ago and was a coward not to.’

‘Wait, Charles.’

‘There’d be no point. You can’t even be sure Strickland’s coming out here.’

‘And you can’t know whether father will ever hear anything.’