Fanny Duberly and her husband Henry in Crimea.
CHAPTER 6 – CRIMEA
07:08 (Constantinople Time)
Thursday, September 14, 1854
Kalamita Bay, Crimea
“At last! They sure took their time to decide where to land.”
Fanny Duberly, standing against the bulwark of the HMS SANS PAREIL and watching hundreds of large rowboats filled with troops race to the desolate beach facing them, smiled at the impatient remark from Mary Pearson.
“Maybe, but have you ever seen such a sight before?”
Mary looked around her at the 600 ships of the allied armada, which stretched for miles along the coast, and shook her head.
“Frankly, no. I hope that the Russians will be as impressed as me and will lay down their arms at our sight.”
“Don’t count on that, Mary.” said from behind them Jeanne Smythe, making the women turn around and look at her. Wearing a dark brown jacket and riding skirt, long black boots. her leather equipment vest with revolvers, a knife and a saber, Jeanne looked ready for everything. “There will be fighting soon enough and it will be bloody, believe me.”
“So, when are we landing ourselves?” asked Sarah Champion with expectation. Jeanne shook her head at that.
“Not for a while, Sarah. Lord Paget is making an exception for my ambulance cart but all other wagons and transport animals are staying on the ships for the moment. Lord Raglan wants to keep his army as mobile as possible. You and Doctor Farrell will stay aboard while the fleet follows the army down the coast towards Sebastopol. Me and Margaret will concentrate on picking up any sick or wounded man during the advance and bringing them to the shore, where they will be embarked for treatment on the ships.”
“God, I envy you, Jeanne.” said Mary, making the French woman grin.
“Why? You get to stay and live in comfort aboard this luxury yacht for a while longer. See you in a few days, girls.”
The women, Fanny included, pulled their tongues at Jeanne as she walked away, giggling: the HMS SANS PAREIL was anything but a luxury yacht. There were however some such yachts bearing what was now commonly called by the troops ‘traveling gentlemen’, or T.G.s in short, effectively accompanying the fleet in the hope of being able to watch the battles to come.
Margaret Ward felt quite nervous and excited at the same time while she watched Jeanne’s ambulance cart, loaded with supplies sufficient for a couple of weeks in the field, roll down a side ramp, with sailors controlling its descent with ropes onto a large floating pontoon resting against the side of the ship. Made of two big rowboats supporting a common platform, the pontoon already bore the last squad of Captain Fields’ D Troop and its horses. Jeanne led by the reins both Yasmina, the cart’s pulling horse, and Pegasus, her personal mount, while Margaret waited until the cart was safely on the pontoon before walking down the ramp herself. Jeanne put on the hand brakes of the cart to prevent it from accidentally rolling off the pontoon, then stood besides Yasmina, calming the horse for the trip to the shore. Margaret climbed in the front of the cart, sitting on the driver’s bench and grabbing the reins handed to her by Jeanne. Margaret then discreetly checked that the cavalry rifle provided by her husband Joseph was close at hand behind the bench. Both Joseph and Jeanne had encouraged Margaret to become proficient with a rifle and, helped by steady lessons from Joseph, Margaret was now a fair shot with the weapon. The hard, endless nursing work had trimmed the excess fat the brunette was sporting when they had left England, something that had pleased Joseph to no small end. While far from looking athletic, Margaret was now in better physical shape than she had been in years and felt ready for what was to come. She was however terribly aware of the unease within the troops around her about seeing women joining them on their way to battle. Even the most ardent feminists in England would pause if they would see her and Jeanne now. Jeanne didn’t seem to care about that, though, as she had already broken about all the rules and taboos concerning the proper role and conduct of women considered acceptable in England. Being filthy rich, she could have been dismissed as a frivolous eccentric if not for her incredible intellectual and physical abilities. Those abilities had in turn further antagonized many men, especially officers, who were secretly afraid of not measuring up to her. Being French had helped Jeanne somewhat, as French women had the reputation in England of being notorious nonconformists and libertines. However, the major point helping Jeanne was the now widely acknowledged fact that she could beat up, shoot of cut to pieces about any man who would dare mock her openly. Still, as the pontoon was let loose and started rowing towards the shore, Margaret saw a number of troopers whispering to each other while glancing furtively at Jeanne and her weapons. They were probably expecting her to be put back in her proper place after the first battle, as soon as she showed the first signs of weakness under fire. Having seen her in action against bandits, Margaret suspected that they were going to wait a long time for that to happen.
After maybe fifteen minutes of rowing, the pontoon started scraping on the bottom’s sand just short of the shore. Once the pontoon came to a full stop, four sailors then slid in place a narrow ramp, allowing the cavalrymen aboard to ride off the pontoon. Jeanne, mounted on Pegasus, preceded the cart, which was then driven down the ramp by Margaret. By now the beach was alive with thousands of British, French and Turkish troops, with not a single Russian to be seen, something that surprised Margaret.
“Jeanne, how come the Russians didn’t do anything about our landing? With the size of our fleet, they surely know that we are here.”
“Oh, they know alright, Margaret.” replied Jeanne, smiling with amusement as she rode alongside the cart. “Russian cavalrymen must have reported us already to Prince Menshikov. Fortunately for us, Prince Menshikov is no Napoleon, or he would have stationed artillery on those hills surrounding this bay, out of range of our ships guns but within range of this beach. Good generalship is not something you will see much during this war, Margaret.”
Seeing the men of the 8th Hussars forming up in a regimental column, Jeanne led the cart to it, then trotted to Lord Paget while Margaret stationed the cart at the rear of the column. After a short conversation with Paget, Jeanne trotted back to Margaret to pass on the latest instructions.
“The regiment is going to act as a forward reconnaissance screen for the infantry. We are to follow the infantry and lend assistance as needed with the sick and wounded.”
“Sounds fine with me.” replied Margaret, who then looked up at the gray sky. “Let’s hope that the weather will hold.”
Looking up as well, Jeanne soon shook her head.
“Don’t count on it. Crimea is quite wet in this season. You did bring your rain gear as I asked you to, I hope?”
“I did.” said Margaret while looking at the darkening horizon. Jeanne’s 20/20 hindsight may be irksome at times but, from experience, Margaret knew that ignoring her advice was foolhardy. By now the Hussars were splitting into troops and galloping away to the East and South. Jeanne then pointed at a small hill overlooking the main road linking the nearby town of Eupatoria with Sebastopol, the ultimate target of the allied armies.
“Let’s take position on that hill and make ourselves comfortable. The wait could be a long one.”
Going to the hill and climbing its gentle grassy slope, they stopped beside a small clump of trees topping it and locked the cart’s brakes before untying Yasmina from it. While Margaret tied solidly their two horses to a tree, using very long ropes so that the animals could eat the long grass around them, Jeanne got busy chopping to bits with an axe a dead tree that was part of the clump. Their next labor was to erect the small rectangular tent stowed in the cart, digging a furrow around it as well to channel away any rainwater. Spotting a small stream nearby to the East of their hill, the two women led their horses to it to let them drink before filling a bucket with water for cooking purposes. Once back at their camp, a small fire was lit and a large pot of water put on it, with the intent of boiling it to make the water safe for consumption. As the water was warming up, Jeanne went to the cart and pulled out of it four steel posts, a canvas screen and a light folding toilet seat, intent on setting up a latrine that would afford them some privacy from the thousands of soldiers still busy landing and organizing themselves.
“Jeanne,” said Margaret as her companion was starting to dig a latrine hole, “our men don’t seem to be in a hurry to move out. We may well spend the night here.”
Jeanne smiled at her while continuing her shoveling.
“I was expecting that, actually. I also bet that our commanders forgot to tell our troops to bring rations with them. The smell of our own food will probably drive them to us by supper time.”
“Uh, sorry but I’m not betting against you, Jeanne. I already got burned a couple of times.”
By the early afternoon, their hill was surrounded on three sides by British and French soldiers grouped into their respective regiments. Margaret couldn’t help notice again the striking differences between the French Army and the British Army. French troops were broken down into small, easily manageable sub-units supported by dedicated cooks, surgeons, nurses and wagon drivers. Each French regiment also had its contingent of female auxiliaries called vivandières, who helped the doctors, did the laundry and ran cantinas to help troop morale. Margaret had met a number of vivandières in Varna and had been surprised to see that they were treated like real soldiers and even wore female variants of French uniforms, with some even sporting military medals. As a result of all this, French soldiers were well fed, received good medical care and had a high morale, apart from being led by combat-hardened officers and NCOs who were promoted on merit. In contrast, the British soldiers that Margaret was watching were formed in big regimental squares and had no logistical means of support with them. As predicted by Jeanne, they also had apparently nothing to eat, while inexperienced officers kept harassing their men with useless orders and directives. While well disciplined, the British Army was clearly an amateur one compared to the French Army. Margaret was wondering if that sad state of affair was going to change one day when Jeanne shouted happily while getting on her feet.
“I see Leila coming our way! LEILA, COME UP HERE!”
Looking the way Jeanne was gesticulating, Margaret saw a young woman in the baggy red trousers and short blue tunic of the Zouaves, tough colonial troops from Algeria, walking up the hill. Margaret knew Leila as well, having met the vivandière in Varna. After conversing quickly in Arabic with Jeanne, the Algerian woman hurried to the freshly dug latrine.
“Please excuse Leila if she was in a hurry,” explained Jeanne good-naturedly, “but they had not had time to prepare separate latrines for the vivandières. Leila recognized my cart from afar and assumed that we had done our usual, efficient setup.”
Margaret giggled at Jeanne’s words.
“It seems that you are as well known in the French Army as you are in the British Army.”
“Don’t forget that I am French, Margaret. They were quite proud to see that a French woman was running the only efficient infirmary in the British camp. General Bosquet even sent me a bottle of wine as a measure of his esteem.”
“I remember that. It was quite a good wine too.”
“A Chateau-Lafitte?” replied Jeanne, faking indignation. “It better be good!”
Then going to the pot steaming over the fire, Jeanne pulled open its cover and plunged a spoon inside, stirring the lentil and fish rice before tasting it.
“It’s ready!” she announced to Margaret before looking at Leila, who was coming back from the latrine. Exchanging a few Arabic words with Jeanne, the Algerian then tasted the rice and obviously liked it. However, she left nearly immediately after a quick salute at Margaret, who watched her go.
“Why the hurry? She could have eaten with us.”
“She knows,” explained Jeanne, “but she has to help run her regimental cantina. Besides, she already had lunch. Now, let’s eat ourselves before the rain starts.”
The sky was still holding, barely, when they finished eating twenty minutes later. On a common accord, the two women then grabbed the steaming pot of rice, still nearly full, along with a large service spoon, and headed towards the nearest regimental square. The men there, soldiers of the 42nd Highlanders wearing kilts and bearskin hats, welcomed Jeanne and Margaret enthusiastically, sniffing the pot of rice with famished looks. A sergeant ordered at once his men into a line and with their mess tins at the ready, allowing Margaret to spoon out rice into the presented mess tins while Jeanne held the pot. Even when rationing each man to one large spoonful, they emptied the pot quickly, leaving still many men in line with empty tins. Jeanne looked at the mass of soldiers still waiting for food and felt discouragement: there were still hundreds needing to be fed. The sergeant saw her expression and spoke quietly to her.
“Don’t blame yourself for not being able to feed us all, madam. What you did is already a lot and is truly appreciated.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. I however have some dried dates and cheese that I could go fetch in my cart and bring here for distribution. I do have a substantial food reserve with me, so that won’t leave me in need. Do your men have any cooking utensils and pots with them?”
“We unfortunately have with us only what we were carrying in our backpacks, which is very little, madam. All our supplies and tools are with the supply chariots on the ships.”
Before Jeanne could reply to that, a group of four mounted Highlander officers stopped by her side, prompting the soldiers around her to come to attention. The most senior officer, an arrogant looking major, eyed with contempt the weapons worn by Jeanne.
“Madam, you are disturbing the ranks. I will ask you and your friend to leave the regimental lines.”
Margaret saw Jeanne barely restrain herself from exploding, instead approaching the still mounted major.
“Mister, we were simply helping to feed your men, who obviously had nothing to eat, and…”
“Leave logistics to the commissariat and fighting to men, madam!” replied brusquely the officer. He then looked down at the sergeant near Jeanne. “Chase those two camp followers out of the lines and make sure that they don’t come back, Sergeant.”
That was when Jeanne had enough of the pompous bastard. Making two quick steps towards the major, she then grabbed solidly his right arm and brutally pulled him down from his horse. The major landed hard on his back in the dirt and found himself pinned down by a furious Jeanne, who had one knee against his chest.
“Nobody insults Lady Jeanne Smythe like this, you arrogant moron!” shouted Jeanne while holding her big hunting knife to the major’s throat. The officer, near panic, looked at one of the young captains that had been accompanying him.
“Mister Jones, get that woman off…”
The pressure of the sharp blade then increased on his throat, forcing him to shut up. He could now swear that there was murder in the eyes of the tall woman kneeling on his chest.
“You can’t feed your men and asks for others to defend you and you call yourself an officer? I could challenge you to a duel but I bet that you are too much of a coward to accept it. I will let you live this time but don’t ever insult me or my friend again.”
Jeanne then withdrew her knife and got up on her feet. No one had moved during the few seconds of the confrontation to help the major. Jeanne had turned around and was starting to walk back towards her camp with Margaret when the humiliated officer got up and drew his saber.
“YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS INSOLENCE!”
Before anyone else could react, Jeanne drew her own saber in a flash while pivoting to face the charging major. One slash to the man’s right hand made him drop his blade, while a second slash followed a fraction of a second later, making a long bleeding cut across the left cheek of the major and making him scream with pain. Jeanne then applied the tip of her sword against the man’s throat, forcing him to freeze.
“I could by all rights kill you right here and right now and justly claim self-defense, Major. Find yourself lucky that I consider you unworthy of dirtying further my blade. Now, get back on your horse and return to your tent before I change my mind.”
The mortified senior officer, realizing that she outclassed him in fencing by a long margin, didn’t argue, retreating to his horse and mounting it. After a last black look at Jeanne, he then galloped away, watched by the contemptuous eyes of his men and junior officers. One of the three mounted captains then addressed Jeanne, his face serious.
“Lady Smythe, we all saw how Major McAllister insulted you and attacked you in the back. I doubt that he will press a complaint against you.”
“He better not!” replied Jeanne firmly, then softening her tone. “I only wanted to give some food to your starving men, Captain, and was not expecting to be repaid with such rudeness.”
The captain sighed while looking down at the ground.
“Your generosity is well known, Lady Smythe. God bless you for what you did already, madam. Keep the rest of your supplies for the wounded and sick to come soon: we will manage in the meantime. Again, thank you for your generosity.”
Jeanne hesitated for a moment but finally turned around and walked away with Margaret, recuperating her kitchen pot at the same time. The captain watched her go, then looked bitterly at the major’s tent in the distance: This was only the latest example of the man’s utter disregard for this troops. He couldn’t know yet that the said major was going to be killed in the month to come by a not so accidental British bullet in the head.
14:51 (Constantinople Time)
Sunday, September 17, 1854
Alma River, Crimea
Gordon Smythe took his time to complete his visual scan of the grounds in front of him while sitting calmly on his horse. Even while his cavalry troop was pretty much in plain sight due to the sparse cover available, the Russians fortifying themselves on the hilltops to his front didn’t seem to care about the presence of British cavalrymen. Using his spyglass, Gordon could see across the River Alma thousands of Russian soldiers digging gun positions along the ridges facing him, while more Russians were at work in the small village of Burliuk, next to the wooden bridge carrying the main road to Sebastopol. Gordon then lent his spyglass to Sergeant-Major James Champion beside him so that he could also look.
“Quite a strong position the Russians have there. There are over a hundred artillery pieces along the ridges and the slopes are quite steep. On the other hand, those tall hills to the west of the main Russian positions are nearly empty of enemy soldiers. If we could take them, we would overlook their positions and would make their defenses untenable.”
“Maybe, sir,” replied Champion while looking through the spyglass, “but if that river is too deep to ford and we are forced to use that bridge, those guns will butcher our men as if in a bowling alley.”
“Well, there is only one way to know, Sergeant-Major.” replied Gordon while urging his horse forward. “Stay here with the rest of the troop while I take a dip. If I get hit, return to the army with our information.”
Champion watched with apprehension as his captain galloped to the river, then made his horse enter the water. Some Russians in the village downstream from the British started to get nervous at the sight of the lone rider crossing the river, with about twenty of them soon starting to run along the southern bank towards Smythe. Champion then gestured to his men.
“TROOPERS DISMOUNT! GET READY TO GIVE COVERING FIRE TO THE CAPTAIN!”
While four men gathered the reins of their companions’ horses, 23 British troopers dismounted and grabbed their Minié rifles, kneeling down in a firing line along the shrubs. Captain Smythe was now close to the opposite bank, with the water having gone barely to his horse’s belly at its deepest. Champion nearly shouted in triumph when Smythe’s horse climbed the southern bank and made a few steps before its rider made it turn around and calmly cross the river again. By now the Russian infantrymen were getting too close to Champion’s taste.
“TROOPERS! ENEMY INFANTRY TO THE FRONT AT 300 YARDS! FIRE!”
The 23 rifles barked at nearly the same time, downing over a dozen of the Russians and prompting the rest to take cover in a hurry. Reloading their single-shot, muzzle-loading rifles frantically, the British had time to fire a second salvo before the Russians responded in the form of six guns opening fire from the top of the ridge facing them. Champion instinctively ducked as the shells passed over his head, exploding over fifty yards behind the cavalry troop. He saw as well a good hundred Russian cavalrymen now crossing the wooden bridge towards them as Captain Smythe emerged from the river, yelling orders to his men.
“TROOPERS, REMOUNT! GET READY TO WITHDRAW!”
As soon as Gordon Smythe joined them back, the whole troop galloped north, with shells exploding on each side and with the Russian cavalry hard in pursuit. James Champion couldn’t help shout excitedly at his captain riding alongside.
“Quite a warm welcome from those Russians, sir. I hope that our wives’ welcome will be friendlier.”
“Nothing can beat Jeanne’s welcome, Sergeant-Major.” shouted back Gordon, grinning.
“The lucky bastard!” grumbled quietly to himself one of the troopers, imagining the naked body of the tall, shapely French woman.
09:30 (Constantinople Time)
Monday, September 18, 1854
Kalamita Bay, Crimea
Margaret Ward, driving the ambulance cart towards the shore where a British rowboat was waiting, felt her heart jump when she saw a floating pontoon being towed towards the beach, coming from the HMS SANS PAREIL. On the pontoon was the medical wagon, its trailer and the train of pack mules of the regimental ambulance. Margaret could also see Doctor Farrell, Sarah Champion, Mary Pearson and the five other women who were now regular auxiliaries of the ambulance, all waving excitedly at her. Fanny Duberly was on the pontoon as well with her horse and pack animal. Waving back, Margaret drove the cart next to the beached rowboat and stopped, to be immediately approached by the navy ensign in charge of the rowboat’s crew.
“What do you have for us this time, madam?”
Margaret half turned and pointed at the two men lying on the stretchers laid in the back of the cart.
“Two soldiers from the 23rd Fusiliers, sir. Both suffer from strong fevers.”
“Alright, madam, we will take it from here.” said the young ensign, a mere teenager, before shouting at his six sailors. “Four men to unload those two sick lads, quickly!”
By the time the two feverish soldiers, wrapped in blankets, were off the cart and in the rowboat, the pontoon and its towing rowboat had beached. Fanny Duberly and her horses were first off the pontoon, followed by the wagon and its trailer, with the pack mules last. The beach was soon the scene of a joyful reunion, with everybody wanting to hug and kiss Margaret. Fanny was then the first to ask the question Margaret was expecting.
“Where is Jeanne, Margaret? Normally, she accompanied you when bringing patients to the ships.”
“She had to pitch tent some fifteen miles from here to take care of four severe cholera cases, Fanny. Thank God the wagon is here now: we sure could us