Soldier of the Queen

Part One

1

Sacred to the Memory

of

Colby William Rollo Goff

1836–1854

Cornet, 19th Lancers

Only son of Maj-Gen Loftus Yorke Goff

of this Parish

Rest in Peace

He could already see it on his tombstone.

Drawing a deep breath, he tried to compose himself. The officers of the other regiments on either side of him were managing to smoke cigars and eat hard-boiled eggs, as if a battle were something that happened every day of their lives. But, unlike him, they had seen the dead at the Alma, a month before, and even if they’d spent most of that day in a melon field prodding at the fruit with their swords, at least they had some idea what to do.

Colby William Rollo Goff earnestly wished he did.

If nothing else, he felt, the other officers had at least gained enough experience to make sure they had food with them – something that had never crossed the youthful mind of Colby Goff. After all, he thought, it didn’t seem illogical to expect your superiors to give you something to eat before you started to die, and as his healthy eighteen-year-old stomach rumbled hollowly, he came to the gloomy conclusion that the one thing war taught you quickly was to allow for the absence of periods set aside in battle for meals.

The little knot of horsemen round the divisional general shifted, one of the horses wheeling abruptly as its owner heaved at the reins. The eyes of the riders were turned towards the ridge where the commander-in-chief and his staff waited, overlooking the valley.

Sitting with his few lancers, Colby swallowed nervously. Surely, he thought, everybody else must feel as worried as I do. They didn’t appear to, however, and since they weren’t staring at him, he could only assume he didn’t either. He glanced furtively at his trumpeter, Sparks, and his orderly, Trooper Ackroyd. Lances slung, they were staring down the valley with the same blank disinterest they’d have shown if they’d been watching the judging of the saddleback class in the pig section at a county show. Somewhere behind, a commotion broke out with cries of rage and the thud of hooves on ribs, as kicking and barging swept through the line, and Sergeant-Major Holstead, a small grizzled man with red hair, spurred into action to restore order, quite unruffled by what lay ahead, a hard-bitten old warrior with service in India who was unperturbed by anything except idle soldiers.

Colby wished he felt the same. His heart was thumping wildly, and he felt a desperate urge to empty his bladder. I always felt like this before a game at school, he thought wildly. Can battle be so very different? He drew a deep breath. Yes, by God, it could, he decided. Battles weren’t won with just a few black eyes.

The hills about him were curiously silent. Grey-green and forbidding, the heights to the north rose as craggy slopes where he could see men moving. And guns, he noted uneasily – big guns, their blunt snouts pointing, it seemed, straight at the last of the Goffs. To his right, the Causeway loomed, high, uneven and apparently empty, but he knew there were enemy soldiers there, because he’d seen them from the other side before crossing to this valley to the north.

He worked his jaw, settling the metal links of the chin strap of his lance cap more comfortably. Wriggling himself more firmly into the saddle, he glanced again at his men. Most of them, like himself, were from Yorkshire – because that was where the regiment did its recruiting – stony-faced, stony-headed men from the little farms, who’d been with horses most of their lives. Colby’s orderly, Trooper Ackroyd, edged his horse forward. He was a short, thickset man with a long face as empty as a cow pat. He sat bolt upright in his saddle, the steel butt of his lance in its bucket by his right foot. ‘You got everything you’ll need, sir?’ he asked.

Colby wondered. He’d hardly been in the army long enough to know what he did need and certainly nobody had bothered to teach him. England had been at peace so long and war had seemed so distant, well-trained troops grew sulky under constant repetition and two parades a week had seemed enough. Now, face to face with the enemy, he began to see that a little instruction of some sort might have been invaluable.

At least, he thought, he had the rudiments of sword drill. Always aim at the throat and hold the weapon rock-steady. On the Left Engage, watch what you did with it or you were likely to end up with an earless charger, and when dealing with infantry where you had to lean well over, make damned certain you didn’t lose your stirrup or you’d fall out of the saddle onto your head.

He smiled at the orderly. Tyas Ackroyd had been born and brought up on the Home Farm next to the house at Braxby where Colby himself had been born, and they had gone ratting together as boys, swum in the Brack in summer, tormented the village girls, and been chased by gamekeepers off other people’s land. His grandfather had ridden with Colby’s father in Vandeleur’s Brigade at Waterloo, handing over the job of looking after him when he had grown too old to his son, and then to his grandson. Ackroyd men had gone to war with the Goffs for about five generations now and, before Colby had left, the old man had told him gruffly to remember he was a Goff of Braxby and not to let his family down. ‘Mind you read the Book,’ he had said, ‘don’t get gambling, and watch out for them war-’orses. They’re fiercer than farm animals.’

‘Yes, Tyas—’ Colby smiled at the old man’s grandson – ‘My sword’s sharp, and I have my mother’s picture and the prayer book she gave me in my sabretache. The Lord will watch over me. What have you got?’

Ackroyd gave him a quick grin. ‘Rabbit’s foot, sir. They say they’re right effective.’

As he backed away, a heavy chestnut with a pale mane edged closer. Ambrose la Dell’s lance cap, which had never fitted properly as long as Colby had known him, jiggled over his nose with every shift of the horse. When the squadron had landed forty-eight hours before, its commanding captain had gone down with cholera even as he had set foot ashore and, because no other captain or senior lieutenant was prepared to suffer the discomfort of these alien Crimean uplands sooner than necessary, only another cornet could be found to hold Colby’s hand. Unfortunately, Brosy was equally wet behind the ears and, with Claude Cosgro, the squadron’s only experienced officer, down at the port emitting an indignant wail for help, they had been obliged to pool their knowledge and command the squadron as a committee of two, both hoping to God someone knowledgeable would arrive in time to take over.

Unlike Colby, who was spare and lithe and looked like a stable boy, Brosy was tall and plump, fair while Colby was dark, easy-going and lazy where Colby was quick-tempered and inclined to tear through life like an uncontrolled whirlwind.

He managed a nervous smile. ‘Looks as if we’ll be in action before long, Coll,’ he said.

‘Dare say.’ Colby was far less frightened of the weapons he was about to face than he was of Colonel Markham, his commanding officer, who would have been livid to the point of apoplexy if he’d allowed a cavalry action to take place without the regiment being represented. In addition to all of this, of course, there were 200 years of stolid North Country soldiers breathing heavily down his neck, and if he’d let them down, all those other Goffs who lay straight and austere in their stony Yorkshire churchyards would have set up such a clatter of old bones as they spun in their graves he’d have had to live with it in his ears for the rest of his life.

Aut Primus Aut Nullus. There it was, the regimental title, on a little scroll beneath the eagle on Brosy’s lance cap which – typical of Brosy – was worn without its oilskin cover because he’d lost it somewhere en route. The Best or Nothing. If we’re the best, Colby thought wildly, then, by God, they had got nothing.

Brosy was squinting towards the ridge. ‘I saw Billy Russell, of The Times, up there when I went to report ourselves,’ he said. ‘Scribbling away for all he was worth. I expect he’s watching what’s going on.’ His plump placid face creased into a frown. ‘What does he know about military tactics?’ he went on in a bleat of indignation. ‘It needs a military man to write about war. Hear that next time that’s what the newspapers intend to do, in fact. My cousin owns part of the Morning Advertiser and he said they’d pay well.’ He paused, then went on again, chattering nervously because he was as worried as Colby. ‘That ass, Nolan, was there, too, preaching cavalry fire and slaughter. He’s been at it, they say, ever since we got here.’ He stared petulantly towards the ridge again. ‘Wish the infantry would arrive. I’d hate to go into action without ’em. Why don’t someone send a message?’

Colby shifted uneasily. At eighteen he felt devoid of experience, brains, even common sense. Every single man sitting his horse behind him knew more about soldiering than he did. Some had served for seven, twelve or even more years, and some, coming home from India on the outbreak of war, had transferred to the 19th from the 3rd Light Dragoons in case they missed it. One of them, Trooper Vaughan, who had been acting as regimental butcher down by the harbour, galloped up, grinning. He was wearing a white smock streaked with the blood of the cattle he’d been killing and carried nothing but a sabre.

‘It coom from t’enemy,’ he announced cheerfully, gesturing behind him. ‘I picked ’un up down there. Didn’t want to miss t’fun.’

Without bothering to salute, he cantered away to find his friends and Colby turned and glanced nervously at his men once more. Their reception in the Light Brigade camp the previous evening could hardly have been called warm and they had not been there an hour before they had been ordered peremptorily down to Balaclava as escort to Sir Colin Campbell, who was commanding the Highlanders guarding the port.

When the first reports of advancing Russians had arrived that morning, however, Colby had announced that, whatever ideas Campbell might have, he was determined to fight the coming battle in the ranks of the cavalry, and the grizzled old Scot, probably more experienced in war than any other man in Russia, had given him a grim smile.

‘This y’r firrst time in action, boy?’ he had asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then make sure you use y’r handkerchief to bind y’r sword to y’r hand. Otherwise ye’ll lose it. Do ye no’ feel the sweat on the palm already?’

His fingers moist on the reins of his horse, Colby shivered violently, aware that for the first time in his life he was about to face someone who was going to try to kill him. Another shiver ran through him. Despite the sun, the morning was chilly and he decided it was going to be a damned uncomfortable winter here on the Russian uplands. It would be a damned sight warmer by far, he thought, at the Markhams’ house at Braxby back in Yorkshire, holding Georgina Markham’s hand.