To Do and Die. Patrick Mercer

really learnt to hate walking.

      Now the long columns crept forward over gentle, rolling hills that were covered in rough, herby grass whilst larks rose and fussed overhead. Here and there they came across odd, isolated villages of shingled cottages with some larger stone houses dotted about, herds of skinny cows and flocks of hairy goats, but it hardly relieved his boredom.

      There were great, leafy vineyards everywhere, heavy with fruit. Carefully cultivated over many acres, the ground was criss-crossed with shallow trenches designed to allow the vines to grow up the wall facing the sun. These were topped with sticks and light poles along which the sinewy vines grew, and on them were bunches of green grapes ripening in the autumn sun. But other than the vines and the odd bit of rough plough, the country was remarkably untouched.

      ‘Wouldn't you just love to be in the cavalry, now?’ Carmichael had come beetling up from his place at the rear of the company column to pester Morgan.

      ‘Well, I'd love to have a better horse than Shanks's mare, if that's what you mean, Carmichael, but this fight will be decided by us and the guns, I reckon, not that lot.’ Morgan nodded past the Light Division that marched to their own – the 2nd Division's – left towards the dust cloud that marked the progress of the Cavalry Division. They had been pushed out inland to guard the Allies' flank. ‘Anyway, if I did have a horse I would miss all this grand marching, wouldn't I, and all the fun of dealing with the men and their precious, bloody feet.’ Morgan knew that at the end of the day's march, when weapons had been cleaned but before food could be prepared, there would be the ritual of foot inspection. All those who were not on sentry would sit by their kit, boots and socks off whilst the subalterns peered at spongy soles, poked at burst blisters whilst the sergeants scribbled in notebooks beside them.

      ‘Do I detect a slight malaise in the house of Morgan? Is the bold officer bored of la vie militaire before it's even started?’ Carmichael could be especially annoying when he put his mind to it, thought Morgan. If he kept his mouth shut perhaps the wretched man would leave him alone.

      As roads and tracks were crossed by the horde so gawping villagers gathered, apparently totally unafraid of the invaders. The local people were Tartars, broad-eyed, coarse-haired, accustomed to the hard life of field and plough but occasionally they would glimpse some of the managing classes who dressed and looked more like Europeans. Straddling the same squat ponies as the peasants, everyone expected these folk to hare off at the sight of the Allies. But no, they seemed as content as their workers to watch the columns stamp by, even exchanging some civil words in French with the Staff officers.

      For three days this continued with, as each dawn broke, everyone expecting a brush with the foe. But of him there was hardly a sign. Stuck in the middle of the dusty phalanx, the 95th saw nothing of the occasional hussar or light dragoon who came flying into headquarters to report the sighting of a distant cavalry vedette. They just plodded on, any thrill of excitement quelled by the weight on their backs, any spark of anticipation quenched by the pain of their blistered feet. One or two men fell from the ranks clutching at their stomachs, cholera never being far away, but for the most part the troops just trudged, living for the order to raid the precious water from their big, wooden canteens.

      There wasn't much help for the sick. If a man fell out with disease or heat-stroke, his comrades would do all that they could before leaving him to be picked up by the regimental surgeon and his Staff. In battle, the band were expected to provide stretcher-bearers, but on the line of march they had music to play so the task of collecting the sick fell to the handful of wives. Only eight of them had been selected by ballot to accompany the regiment and now two were themselves sick. The others, though, had been equipped with locally purchased carts drawn by sturdy little ponies. Just big enough for two casualties and all their weapons and kit, the little traps did a brisk trade amongst the plodding companies.

      There had been some heart-wrenching scenes back in England when the wives whose names had not come up in the ballot parted from their husbands but, just as Morgan had predicted to himself, Mary had been one of the lucky ones. Now he glimpsed her only rarely, his throat constricting with desire whenever he saw her dashing about in her cart.

      A boy from Thirsk called Almond, never the strongest, had been one of the few sick in the Grenadier Company. On the second day, he'd simply plonked himself down in the grass, grey in the face and all resistance gone, just letting his rifle fall like so much scrap. He'd sat for a few moments whilst his comrades got a bit of water past his lips, but as soon as the NCOs decided that he had to be left for ‘the quack’ he'd just lain down flat, moaning pathetically. Quick on the scene was Mary. Where Almond was grey she was vibrant, where he was weak she was strong. Morgan could see that this life suited her perfectly. Gone was the chambermaid – in her place was a confident, blossoming young woman totally in control, all faux-servility forgotten.

      It was the first decent river they'd seen. By the time they got to it the Bulganak was terribly muddied after cavalry, guns and the leading divisions had splashed through. This didn't prevent some of the younger soldiers from trying to fill their canteens with the gritty liquid, NCOs roundly cursing them for greenhorns. But whilst the early autumn sun shone with a ferocity that no one had warned them about in England and burnt necks were sponged in the dark but cooling water, bugles suddenly shrieked from way to the front.

      ‘Colour-Sar'nt, unless I'm very wrong, the cavalry have got a bite. Get the men out of the river and listen out for our bugles.’ Captain Eddington was right. The cavalry screen had seen Russian horsemen in far greater numbers than ever before lining the ridge to their front and now horse artillery was being called forward to support them. As the 95th cleared the river and fell into disciplined rank, trotting up to where the rest of the 2nd Division was forming, so the horse gunners came pelting into the ford.

      From the slightly rising ground, Eddington's company was to get a grandstand view of the little drama that was to be played out in front of them. The men first formed in their three ranks, then they were allowed to stand at ease, then when it became clear that the fighting would all be done by horse and guns, they were allowed to sit down and smoke. In minutes the martial atmosphere had changed to that of a race meeting.