To Do and Die by Mercer Patrick

Author:Mercer, Patrick [Mercer, Patrick]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Endeavour Press
Published: 2014-08-26T16:00:00+00:00

NINE

Dawn at Inkermann

He was a funny little man. Pennefather, the Brigade’s pugnacious, blasphemous commanding general held his spurs to his horse’s flanks as he trotted up the scrubby slopes of Shell Hill to visit Morgan and the 95th’s pickets. In his wake followed a trail of other horsemen, Major Hume the commanding officer, McDonald newly promoted to captain and filling the post of adjutant that the Alma had left vacant, an aide and—more expensively mounted than any of them—Richard Carmichael. Even at seventy yards Pennefather’s Tipperary tongue could be heard lashing incessantly through the cool, afternoon breeze, questioning, probing, seeking answers to which he listened intently.

Carmichael had briefed Morgan and the senior NCOs of his Company the night before about Brigadier-General Pennefather’s visit. ‘And I don’t want any idleness or smart answers when the General asks a question. You all know what he’s like, he’ll look in the men’s pouches, check weapons for rust, see that they know the order of the day—be generally bloody meddlesome.’

Taken a leaf out of your book, then thought Morgan. ‘Just make sure the men agree with everything he says and don’t croak about the rations or how much sleep they’re getting. Right, I trust that’s clear. The commanding officer and adjutant will be with him—it’s important for the company that this goes well.’

Important for Richard-wretched-Carmichael’s career, more like, but Morgan kept his thoughts to himself.

The 95th had seen much more of their brigadier lately and he was gaining a reputation as a hard, brave man who spoke directly to the troops in language they understood. Not for him the detachment of the Staff nor the distant feudalism of the gentrified officers who clustered through this army. Morgan guessed that a glassy, brainless reply from the men would irritate their fiery little Irish general more than anything else and, besides, the troops weren’t like that anymore, for the doltish, thoughtless obedience of peacetime was long gone. In its place was a self-possession and confidence that had been forged in battle. If the soldiers were spoken to honestly by a senior officer they would reply in the same currency—and there wasn’t a damn thing that Lieutenant-bloody-Carmichael could do about it.

The horses were reined in, blowing gently, just as they reached the gritty clearing where McGucken and Morgan waited. ‘Bloody hell, sir, the commanding officer and adjutant haven’t got their greatcoats on. Mr Carmichael did say that we were to be in cold-weather dress, didn’t he?’ McGucken fretted.

‘Yes, he did, but he’s got his coat on and a face like a dose of pox—don’t worry about it.’ Morgan smiled inwardly at Carmichael’s evident discomfort.

But Pennefather swung down cheerily enough from the saddle, wrapped in a sheepskin poshteen that proclaimed his earlier hard campaigning in India. Both waiting men took a stiff pace forward before snapping to the position of attention, Morgan bringing his hand to his cap, McGucken slapping the sling of his rifle.

‘Sir, Colour-Sergeant McGucken and Lieutenant Morgan, commanding the forward pickets of the 9Sth’s Grenadier Company, sir.

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