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  As Bennett watched, all at once a body of some four squadrons of the Russian force broke away from the main group and began galloping over the central hillocks towards the Highlanders.

  Bennett watched unbelievingly as Sir Colin Campbell calmly rode along that thin line of men and his order made Bennett’s blood run cold.

  ‘Men, remember there is no retreat from here,’ he told them. ‘You must die where you stand.’

  Bennett’s heart was in his mouth, not just because those pitifully few men were being urged to give their lives for their country, but because they were all that stood between the formidable Russian force and Balaclava. If the base camp was taken by the Russians, the war would be lost too, and tens of thousands would be killed – civilians, the sick and his precious Hope too.

  He knew that if he were in the Highlanders’ boots, he would run just as fast as the Turks had earlier, for it seemed impossible that they could summon the nerve to hold their ground, much less vanquish the enemy.

  But as Bennett watched the Russians come on, all at once he realized they were not aware that the hillock they were approaching was occupied by British soldiers. Suddenly the Highlanders sprang up like Jack-in-the-boxes. Having been told they were to die, it was clear they were not going to sell their lives cheaply, for they faced the enemy steadfastly and aimed their guns to kill.

  Bennett held his reins ready to flee, for it looked inevitable that this was going to become a massacre. He could scarcely bear to look, yet he was entranced and staggered by the sight of the stalwart Highlanders firing calmly and accurately without any apparent fear for their own safety.

  Maybe it was that cool courage, coupled with their fearsome appearance in kilts and red coats, that made the Russians waver at the second volley of fire; but they were wavering, and the Highlanders sensed it, moving forward, clearly eager to engage in hand-to-hand fighting.

  Sir Colin Campbell’s voice rose up loud and stern. ‘Ninety-third, ninety-third! Damn all that eagerness!’

  The Highlanders steadied, another volley was fired, and then to Bennett’s awe and surprise the Russians wheeled and withdrew back in the direction of the main cavalry.

  The Scotsmen cheered and whooped, the victorious sound bringing a lump to Bennett’s throat. Goose-pimples came up over his whole body and he had to wipe away tears of emotion, for he could not imagine anything more courageous than what he’d just seen. This was heroics on the grandest of scales, something he hoped he’d live to tell his children and grandchildren about.

  Bennett couldn’t stay to see any further heroics, for he could see the ambulance carts being loaded and he would be needed to tend the casualties. But for the time being Balaclava was safe.

  It was to be a day of incredible valour. General Scarlett of the Heavy Brigade, with 500 of his troopers, was on his way to support Sir Colin Campbell’s men, but his route took him straight across the front of the advancing Russian cavalry coming down the hill towards him.

  The Russians were 3,000 or more strong, yet despite the odds against him, Scarlett sounded the charge and tore like hell into the enemy with the Irish Inniskillings yelling like banshees.

  Those who were watching from the safety of the Heights reported back later that the British had disappeared into the vast mass of Russians, and they expected them all to be annihilated. Yet among the seething grey-uniformed hordes brilliant red coats were observed, swords slashing, thrusting and hacking in the sunshine.

  Then a second line of British came, wild with battle rage, yelling ferociously as they too launched themselves into the fray.

  Finally, on fearing all men would be lost, Lord Lucan ordered in the 4th Dragoon Guards. They came crashing into the mêlée on the flank, and all at once the Russians swayed, rocked and suddenly fled.

  Bennett was back with Hope in the hospital when they heard the cheers, and they assumed the battle was over for the day, and that any moment the carts of wounded would arrive.

  They began to arrive within the hour. Once again it was a revisiting of Hope’s first day at Balaclava as stretcher after stretcher was carried in, soon overflowing into the surrounding tents and outhouses and on to the quay. Bennett and the other surgeons moved methodically among them, amputating where necessary, removing pieces of shell and stitching sabre wounds.

  Hope, who worked wherever she was needed most, giving water, cleaning wounds, cutting fabric to expose wounds, was astounded how even badly, often mortally, wounded men could be so cheerful and optimistic. When they said the British had the Russians on the run, she believed them.

  The triumphs of the morning soon turned to shock and horror that afternoon, however, when the news arrived of the disastrous charge of the Light Brigade.

  Further cowardly Turks fleeing to the safety of the port were the first indication something had gone badly wrong. It appeared that Lord Raglan had seen the Russians attempting to seize English guns from the abandoned redoubts and had ordered the Light Brigade to take action.

  Why Lord Cardigan led 700 of his men straight into an ambush of the Russians who had earlier fled from the Heavy Brigade, no one understood. Bennett, having noted the two valleys on the plain earlier and how they obscured the vision of the soldiers in the field, thought that was to blame. In the weeks that followed, all kinds of theories were bandied about and the blame was attributed mainly to Lord Lucan. Yet the most logical explanation was that Cardigan couldn’t see the Russians waiting in the north valley of the plain from his position, or that he had misinterpreted the order he had been given. But whatever the true reason, the result was absolute carnage, for the Light Brigade rode into a three-sided trap without escape. Russian gunfire rained down on them.

  Only 195 men came back, including Lord Cardigan, and some 500 horses were killed.

  Back in the hospital, everyone was too busy dealing with the casualties of the morning to take much notice of the gunfire. It was some time after the charge, which had only lasted twenty minutes, that a messenger arrived with the devastating news. By the time the wounded were brought down into the town it was late afternoon, already growing dark and cold.

  A handful of the men, swaying in their saddles, rode down on their horses despite pieces of shell embedded in their limbs. A few staggered in on foot, supported by other soldiers, and the most seriously wounded came on carts. Their faces were blackened by smoke and smeared with blood, the once vivid colours of red or blue jackets were dull with dirt and more blood, tattered and singed by bullets.

  For the second time since she’d arrived in the Crimea, Hope felt like running away. The little hospital was already full to bursting point, the air was thick with the stench of blood, and the moaning of those in agony was too dreadful to bear. She had already seen over thirty men die from their wounds that day. Most of them were very young, mere boys of eighteen or nineteen, and it was wrong that they should have died for a cause they didn’t even fully understand.

  But as she stood at the hospital door, watching the lights from the quay glistening in the water of the bay, she knew she would have to find the strength from somewhere, as long as Bennett remained working.

  ‘Leave me here to take my turn. There’s a great many worse off than me.’

  She started at the familiar voice, and realized it was coming from one of the carts filling the quayside. The darkness had added a new problem. Earlier, in daylight, they had been able to check over the wounded, selecting the most urgent cases first. This was impossible now, and it was too horrible to think that someone might die of blood loss for the want of a simple tourniquet. Taking a lantern down from the wall, she called to two orderlies to come with her. Then, going from cart to cart, she quickly looked the men over, telling her assistants which ones she wanted taken straight in.

  It was on the fourth cart back that she found the owner of the voice she had recognized.

  Captain Pettigrew.

  She hadn’t seen him at all since she landed here, much to her frustration when she wanted to know a
ll about Nell, and she hadn’t had the time or opportunity to go to search him out.

  ‘Where are you wounded, Captain?’ she asked, holding the lantern up so she could see him better.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t Mrs Meadows!’ he exclaimed in some surprise. ‘I thought you’d been left at Varna!’

  ‘Not me,’ she smiled. ‘I was always disobedient. Where are you hurt?’

  ‘Just a sabre slash,’ he said, indicating that it was on his thigh. ‘It can wait.’

  Even in the darkness she could see a vivid flash of white flesh where his cherry-coloured breeches had been slashed. The sleeve of his blue jacket was cut too, and the surrounding material was dark with blood.

  ‘Take this man,’ she said to the two orderlies.

  ‘No, leave me, there’s others more urgent,’ he said.

  ‘Allowme to be the judge of that,’ she said. ‘A clean wound if stitched up quickly heals in no time. Stay here and you’ll bleed to death. Don’t argue with me.’

  He grinned at her and made a mock salute. But despite his jovial manner she could see his face was alarmingly pale and there were beads of sweat on his forehead.

  By the time she’d checked the other carts and gone back into the hospital, Captain Pettigrew had been laid on a palliasse and she could see he was already weak from loss of blood.

  Taking the scissors from her apron pocket, she cut away the sleeve of his jacket and the leg of his breeches, then bathed both the wounds. Once cleaned, she could see they were deep, but she was sure stitching would be sufficient.

  She called Bennett over for his opinion. He’d just finished one leg amputation and was about to start on another man’s arm.

  ‘You can do this, nurse,’ he said, glancing sideways at her, perhaps guessing she was nervous of stitching up an officer. ‘They are longer wounds than you’ve done before, but good clean ones. I expect the Captain could do with a tot of rum before you start.’

  Pettigrew tried to smile but it was more of a grimace. ‘Will her stitching be as good as her sister’s?’

  ‘It’s better,’ Hope said. ‘And I give bigger tots of rum too. Now, just you lie still.’

  It took over an hour to stitch the two wounds, and although he grimaced a great deal, he didn’t cry out. Hope’s knees hurt from kneeling on the stone floor, her eyes felt sore from squinting in the bad light, and she was so tired that there were moments when she thought she wouldn’t be able to finish the job. But finally the last stitch was in and she was able to bandage the wounds.

  ‘Can you get someone to take me back to camp?’ Pettigrew asked, his voice weak and shaky now.

  ‘Certainly not,’ she retorted indignantly. ‘Jolting up that rough road will just break the wounds open. You’ll stay here and keep still. You aren’t out of the woods yet.’

  She washed his face and hands, then got another blanket and tucked it round him.

  His eyes were fixed on her face and the look was so intense it made her blush. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Your colouring is the same as the rest of your family’s,’ he said. ‘But your features are different.’

  ‘Have you met them all?’ she asked in some surprise.

  ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Not James recently though, but I remember him from Briargate.’

  A warm glow of delight ran through her. ‘There is so much I want to ask you about them,’ she said eagerly. ‘But I can’t now, you need to rest and I’ve got other men to nurse.’

  ‘Nell will be so proud of you,’ he said, putting one hand on her arm to stress his sincerity. ‘I did write to tell her I found you. I hope you don’t mind?’

  ‘No, I’m glad, but tomorrowyou must give me the address so I can write too. We have a great deal of catching up to do.’

  ‘Did Albert force you to write that letter?’ he asked.

  Hope nodded.

  ‘And how did he ensure you’d never come back?’

  ‘Blackmail,’ she said simply. ‘But that’s enough for one night. Try to sleep.’

  Three hours later, Hope was finally leaving the hospital. Although she was close to complete exhaustion, she stopped to look at Captain Pettigrew for a moment. A lantern nearby gave enough light to see him clearly, and in sleep his face looked youthful and handsome.

  She could understand why Lady Harvey had fallen for him, not just because he had fine, strong features, or that air of sheer masculinity Sir William lacked, but something more. She couldn’t define it, but she felt it inside her. A strange, warm feeling, not unlike the way she’d felt about Bennett when she first met him.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘And where do you think you are going?’ Hope asked indignantly as she arrived at the hospital early in the morning to find Captain Pettigrew about to dress himself in some new clothes.

  It had been two days since he’d been brought to the hospital, and his wounds were already healing, but he wasn’t fit enough to be walking around.

  ‘I can’t stay here, nurse,’ he said, flashing his brilliant grin at her. ‘I need to see my men and the horses. Besides, you’ve got plenty of really sick patients to fuss over.’

  A great many of the wounded from that disastrous day had already died from their injuries, but the hospital was still vastly overcrowded, and more men would need amputations today if gangrene had set into their wounds. Looking around her, Hope thought the place had more in common with a squalid ‘padding ken’ than a hospital. There were men everywhere, shoved up together like sardines in beds, under beds, every inch of space filled.

  ‘You will lie down and let me re-dress those wounds,’ she said sharply, snatching the new breeches and jacket from his hands. ‘Just stretching to put those clothes on is likely to open you up again. Or do you want an infection, then an amputation, so you can go hopping around with only one leg and one arm?’

  ‘Nowthere’s a cheerful thought,’ he responded teasingly. ‘You are even bossier than Nell.’

  But he did obey her, and didn’t even wince as she removed the bandages and washed the wounds.

  ‘There’s no sign of an infection,’ she said after she’d examined him and begun to re-dress the wounds. ‘But that doesn’t mean you are able to walk or ride yet. I think you should be moved somewhere to convalesce though, you need a strong stomach to stay here.’

  ‘Don’t you dare suggest I go to Scutari,’ he said with some indignation. ‘I’d sooner lie here and look at you than face that hell-hole.’

  Hope had been told that just the previous day a copy of The Times had been circulating which had reported on what a terrible place the hospital at Scutari was. As a result, most of the wounded were fearful about being sent there.

  ‘Ask Lord Cardigan if you can stay on his yacht then,’ she retorted. It was something of a miracle that Cardigan had survived the charge. Apart from a minor sabre slash he was unhurt. He had retreated to his yacht and ordered his company surgeon to treat him there. It was said he was drinking heavily, as well he might, for many here held him responsible for the carnage.

  ‘He doesn’t like “Indian Officers”, Pettigrew said cheerfully. ‘He probably hopes I’ve croaked.’

  Hope smiled. It was hard not to be amused by Pettigrew; he was brave, outspoken, charming and like a naughty boy at times. Apparently Lord Cardigan had slighted many officers who had served in India, which was ridiculous, as they were the only officers who had recent battle experience.

  ‘We could put you in a tent out the back,’ she suggested. ‘I daresay if your servant couldn’t come down to wait on you, I could bring you the odd bowl of gruel to keep your strength up.’

  He laughed heartily but then winced at the pain in his arm.

  ‘No laughing, no walking, no anything,’ she said with mock severity. ‘You’ve already used up all your luck, so if you’ve got any sense you’ll just lie low.’

  ‘Can you spare some time to come and talk to me today?’ he said. ‘There are so many questions I want to ask you.’

&
nbsp; ‘There’s plenty I want to ask you too,’ she said tartly. ‘But meanwhile I’ve got more important things to do.’

  It was noon before Hope had finished changing dressings. Most of these wounded would be cleared out of the hospital shortly, but they would soon be replaced by others brought down from the Heights. The shelling was going on right now, though she hardly noticed it over the moans. She just hoped Robbie would stay safe up there. He’d been ordered there with his company the day after she and Queenie arrived. Queenie had gone with him, and she really missed her friend for there were so few women down here, and none that she felt as comfortable with as Queenie.

  Hope was terrified that Bennett might be ordered on to the Heights. By rights he should be there with his regiment, but maybe his superiors realized that they had few doctors as experienced in surgery as him and felt he was more valuable here.

  The army certainly didn’t value their rank and file. The men had no shelter, hardly any food, and when it rained the trenches were knee-deep in mud. Everyone was concerned about what would happen when winter set in.

  Hope found time to go and see Captain Pettigrew that evening. The surgeon who had treated Lord Cardigan’s wound had moved him to a small house along the quay being used by officers from the 93rd Regiment.

  She was ushered towards a room at the back of the house by the same servant she’d met at the cavalry camp in Varna. He was a wiry man of about thirty with very bad teeth and a completely bald head.

  ‘You done a good job with the Captain,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Didn’t think I was going to see him again!’

  Hope smiled at the rather blunt remark. ‘You take good care of him and don’t let him exert himself,’ she said.

  Pettigrew looked remarkably comfortable in his new surroundings. The bed wasn’t quite long enough for him, but he had a pillow and a colourful quilt tucked round him. The damaged jacket was gone and had been replaced by a loose white linen shirt.

  ‘I hope you had help getting your clothes off?’ she said tartly.