Anti-Ice

Prologue A LETTER TO A FATHER

July 7th, 1855

Before Sebastopol

My Dear Father,

I scarcely know how to address myself to you after the disgraceful conduct which caused me to leave home. I am well aware that a full year has elapsed without a word from me, and can only offer my great shame as excuse for my silence. I can assure you of my guilt at the thought that you, Mother and Ned might have imagined me lying in some dismal corner of England, alone, penniless and dying.

Well, Sir, Love and Duty have combined themselves with the extraordinary events of the past few days to prompt me to break my silence. Father, I am alive and hale and serving in the 90 Light Infantry in the cause of the Empire in the Crimean campaign! I begin this account seated in the remains of a Russian fortification we call the Redan—named for its shape after the French “tooth,” you see, an unimposing but effective affair of sandbags and earthworks—before the ruins of Sebastopol. I have no doubt that my news so far will astonish you enough—and I dare to hope that your heart will be touched by the tidings of my survival to date—and yet you must be prepared for still greater astonishment, dear Father, at the tale I have to tell. You have no doubt read in Russell’s dispatches to The Times of the final disembowelling of the fortress of Sebastopol by this fellow Traveller and his infernal anti-ice shell. Sir, I have witnessed it all. And, in view of my eternal disgrace, I regard my survival as an unmerited gift from the Lord, as so many good fellows—French and Turks too, as well as English—have fallen all around me.

I owe you some explanation of my conduct since leaving Sylvan, that dark day last year, and how I arrived on this remote shore.

As you know I took with me only a few shillings. My mood was one of self-contempt, Sir, and shame; determined to atone, I made my way by Light Rail to Liverpool and there enlisted into the 90 Regiment. I joined as an ordinary soldier; I had of course no means of purchasing a commission, and in any event I had determined to descend, to mix with the lowest of men, in order to cleanse myself of my sin.

A week after my arrival in Liverpool I was sent to Chatham, and spent some months there being shaped as a soldier of the Empire. Then, determined to submit my life to the will of the Lord, in February of this year I volunteered to join the 90 Light Infantry, in order to be brought out here, to the Turkish war.

As I waited for my transport, convinced that only death waited for me in the distant fields of the Crimea, I wanted most desperately to write to you; but my courage—which has sustained me through the most terrible carnage here—failed before such a trivial task, and so I left England without a word.

We were fifteen days coming to Balaclava; and then we faced some days’ march along the road north to the Allied encampments around Sebastopol.

I beg your indulgence to describe the situation I found here; while the campaign has evidently been reasonably well reported at home by such correspondents as Russell, perhaps the views of an ordinary infantryman of the Army—for such am I, and proud to be—will be of some interest.

Sir, you know why we are here.

Our Empire girdles the World. And our dominion is held together by the threads that are our lines of communication: roads, railways, Light Rail routes and sea lanes.

Czar Nicholas, seeking a Mediterranean port, had cast his envious eyes on the failing Ottoman Empire. So he threatened Constantinople herself—and our lines to India. Soon the Czar was worsting Johnny Turk on land and on sea; and so we, with the French at our side, went to war with him.

We entered the war under the command of Lord Raglan, who had once served with Wellington himself at Waterloo. Father, I once saw that great gentleman himself, riding through our encampment on his way to a conference with his French counterpart Canrobert. Sir, to see Raglan as I did that day, his back ramrod-stiff on his gray, his empty sleeve tucked into his coat (for the French had shot his arm off for him) and his grand, careworn, hawk’s gaze raking over us all, the same gaze that had once faced down Bonaparte himself—I can tell you I was not the only chap to cheer to the heavens and throw his cap high!

But, from the clay I arrived, there were whispers against Raglan.

His head full of days of glory against the Corsican, Raglan apparently was wont to refer to the Russians here as the “French”! And, of course, there were mutterings about Raglan’s conduct of the campaign. After all our first engagement with the Russians was at Alma, a good ten months ago, at which we administered a sound licking to the Czar’s men. What a spectacle that was, by all accounts; the Allied lines were a forest of color highlighted by the glinting of bayonets, while the ear was assailed by a tumult of noise, drums and bugles of all descriptions, all immersed in the unending hum of an armed force on the march. A fellow here describes a charge by a unit of the Grays, their great bearskin caps high above the enemy as they fought back to back, hacking and slicing everywhere…

My only regret is that I missed all the fun!

But, after victory at Alma, Raglan failed to follow up.

Perhaps we could have chased the Russkies there and then out of the Peninsula and been home by Christmas! But it wasn’t to be, and you know the rest of the story: the great battles of Balaclava and Inkerman, with, at Balaclava, the slaughter of the noble Light Brigade under the Earl of Cardigan. (Father, I might interject that early in May I had the opportunity to ride up that famous North valley, almost as far as the site of the Russian guns which had been the Brigade’s objective. The ground was gaudy with flowers, and warm and golden in the rays of the setting sun; six-point shot and pieces of shell lay strewn thickly enough on the ground, with flowers growing through the rusty fragments. I found a horse’s skull, quite clean of meat, pierced by a single bullet hole from left to right. We saw no traces of human bodies. But I heard tell of one fellow who found a jawbone—complete and blanched, with the most perfect, regular set of teeth.)

In any event the Russians survived, and—by Christmas—had holed up in their fortress of Sebastopol.

Now Sebastopol, Father, is the Russians’ key naval base here. If we could take that city the threat to Constantinople would evaporate, and the Czar’s Mediterranean ambitions would be as naught. And so we were drawn up here in great numbers with our trenches, earthworks and mines; and—since Christmas—besieged the town.

It was—or seemed to me—a farcical siege; the Russians were well enough supplied with ammo, and we had no way of imposing a sea blockade—and so the Czar’s ships supplied victuals to the besieged almost daily!

But Raglan would entertain no way of dislodging the Russians other than patient attrition. And, of course, he adamantly refused to have anything to do with suggestions of anti-ice weaponry; a man of his honor would have naught to do with such modern monstrosities.

And meanwhile we waited and waited…

I can only thank a too-benevolent Savior that I, unworthy as I am, arrived after the worst ravages of the winter here. The lads who survived all that have some tales to tell. The summer months had been benevolent, you see, with good foraging to be had, and even sufficient time for games of cricket, improvised but played strictly to the rules! But winter turned the roads and trenches to mud. There was only canvas cover—if that—and the men had to snatch what sleep was possible in knee-deep, freezing mud. Even the Officers suffered disgracefully; by all accounts they were forced to wear their swords in the trenches as the only means by which they might be distinguished from the common footsoldier! Father, this truly was soldiering without the gilding.

And, of course, there was Dame Cholera, brought to all quarters of the Peninsula from the landing station at Varna. A Cholera epidemic is no fun, Sir, for a man can turn from a healthy soldier into a gaunt and careworn shadow in a few hours, and next day he is dead. To maintain discipline and composure in such circumstances says much for the mettle of these fellows; and, dare I say it, the common English have acquitted themselves far better than the French, despite the rumors of our allies’ superior provisioning.

But I have my own ideas about the provision situation, Father. It is my judgment that the French starve better than the English! Deprive an Englishman of his roast beef and ale and he will growl, and lie down and die. But your Frenchman… One Captain Maude, a convivial fellow (who was later shipped home when a shell exploded inside his horse and lacerated his leg) told us of an occasion on which he was invited to supper with a lieutenant of the French army. Approaching the chap’s tent our Maude was greeted by the scents of fine cooking and snatches of opera, and inside the tent boards had been laid out and a clean cloth spread upon them, and a three course meal was served! And on complimenting his host, Maude was astonished to learn that the sole ingredients of all three courses had been beans, and a few local herbs!

So there you have it!

But I would not complain of the conditions endured by the ordinary Englishman here by the time of my arrival. I found a billet in a hut which had been constructed by a platoon of the Turks. We receive salt Beef and Biscuit daily now, poor rations indeed compared to the comfort of home, but more than sufficient to sustain life. And the degradation of alcohol is not unknown to us, Father. Beer is difficult to come by and quite expensive—but not so spirits. There is a species of poison called “raki,” for instance, which may be wheedled from the peasantry here. More than once I have seen men, Officers too, staggering drunk from the stuff; although such behavior, of course, is not condoned. I might relate the downfall of a splendidly made fellow in our company, a chap over six feet in height, a fine soldier but a devil with the drink inside him. Punishment parade is always held early in the morning, before the whole regiment; on this occasion the air was frost and a keen wind was blowing. Our soldier’s wrists and ankles were tied to a triangle of stretcher poles and his bare back exposed; and a drummer plied the cat o’ nine tails while the drum major counted the strokes. Father, the fellow took sixty lashes without a murmur, although the blood was flowing after a dozen strokes. When it was done he straightened up and saluted his Colonel. “That’s a warm breakfast you gave me, your honor, this morning,” he said; and he was walked away to hospital.

For what it is worth, Father, I can report that not a drop has passed my lips since the day I left your house in such unfortunate circumstances.

Now—at last, I almost hear you cry!—I shall describe to you the momentous events of the last few days; and, if you will indulge me so far, I will conclude with a report of my own disposition.

Sebastopol is a naval port on the Black Sea. Imagine if you will a wide bay running west, from the sea, to east; the town squats on the south side of this bay. And the town is riven in two by an inlet which extends south from the bay by some two miles.

The practical import of this, Father, is that two separate armies are required to invest the town; for a force attacking one side could not hope to offer support to a force attacking the other, because of the existence of the inlet. And therefore we and the French were drawn up on either side of the inlet—the French to the left, the British to the right.

The Russian defenses are—or were—slight in appearance, but occupied very commanding positions and were fortified strongly by nature herself. For example, I have already mentioned the earthen battery called the Redan, which was armed with seventeen heavy guns.

I remember one day walking up to within about a mile from the town, intending to inspect its environs. From a hillock I could see the fine Russian ships of war lying like gray ghosts in the bay, and the inhabitants of Sebastopol walking through the streets all unconcerned, as if the one hundred and forty thousand men investing their port were but a dream. But less dreamlike were the fortresses which looked down over our positions. Great black guns peered down at me through their embrasures, and when I showed myself too clearly there was a puff of smoke and I heard a hiss as the shot flew over my head; for they had their ranges very well and could drop them very close.

I have said that the siege lasted many months, and not a few men, growing distracted by the lack of progress, murmured that Lord Raglan, with his long memories and traditional ways, did not have the flexibility of mind to resolve this problem of Sebastopol.

Then, early in May, we had our first indication of such rumblings in more senior circles. A group of Officers joined us, evidently fresh from England, for their epaulettes shone brightly. They were led by General Sir James Simpson, a portly, fierce-looking gentleman. With them came a civilian: an odd cove about fifty years of age, over six feet in height and blessed with a nose like a hawk’s beak, with muttonchop whiskers that were vast bushes as black as you please, and a stovepipe hat that made him look ten feet tall. (Legend has it that a stray Russkie shot—the like of which winged constantly through our midst like tiny, deadly birds—one day threaded a neat hole through this headpiece; and the gentleman, as cool as you like, doffed the piece, inspected the hole, and promised on his return to England to invoice the Czar’s Embassy for the repair!) This fellow picked his way through the mud, peering into our earthworks and studying our amputees and other sick, and his concern and grim humor were evident for all to see.

You will, I hope, recognize from my description the famous Sir Josiah Traveller, author of all those engineering marvels which have made the Manchester industrialists so famous at home. But as far as I know anti-ice gadgetry had never before been employed in a theater of war.

Well, here was Sir Josiah come to the Peninsula to advise us on that very issue.

I was not, of course, privy to the debates which followed Traveller’s arrival, and my report is necessarily based on hearsay. General Simpson was strongly in favor of the deployment of Traveller’s new shells, the quicker to resolve the investment. But Raglan would have none of it. Would the old Duke have used such devilish devices, the same Duke who forbade even the use of the lash on drunkards? (So I imagine Raglan arguing.) No, gentlemen, he would not; and nor would Lord Fitzroy Raglan countenance such a deviance. The traditional methods of investment, as refined for centuries, could not fail; and they would not fail here.

Well, Raglan carried the day; and an assault on the fortress was planned.

Now, Father, only a slight study of the science of investment is required to understand that for us to assail such a fortress as Sebastopol, with little numerical superiority to the defenders, with nothing but field pieces at our command, and with our flanks and retreats insecure, was quite a desperate undertaking. Nevertheless, on 18th June, after nine months of a debilitating and fruitless siege, the Allied forces attempted just such a feat.

Our bombardment had begun as early as a fortnight before. Father, the shells and shot flew over our heads by day and by night, and back came answering fire from the Russians. In my kit constantly, and clutching my Minie to my chest, I had scarcely slept for those two weeks. And as if the racket of the guns were not disturbance enough to our peace of mind, the Czar’s men were wont to send thirty- two-pound shot bouncing through our positions like cricket balls, without regard for the clock, which hardly made for a peaceful night’s sleep!

At last, early on the 18th, we heard the bugles and drums which told us that the assault had started. We gave a ragged cheer—remember that this was my first taste of real action, Sir—and I poked my silly head out of my trench, the better to follow the action.

Through smoke and steam and across smashed-up ground I saw the French go in first. But the Russians were ready for them, and the fellows toppled as if scythed; those following tripped on the fallen, and soon all was confusion. I fear, Father, that some of those brave Gauls fell to misplaced Allied fire in all that turmoil.

At last the orders came for us to advance. Over the top we skirmishers went and on over the broken mud, yells burning our throats, our bayonets glinting before us. We made for the most formidable Russian redoubt, the Redan; our mission was to cover an assault force who carried ladders and woollen bags, the idea being to scale the Redan’s stone walls. I blasted my Minie before me, and for a few seconds the fire of battle coursed through my veins!

Unfortunately the Russians would not play the game.

The Czar’s men stayed in their fortifications and sent a most murderous hail of grape and musketry showering down over us. Quite how I survived those minutes I shall never know, Father; for all around me better fellows than I fell sprawling. At last my boot caught in the soft mud of a shell crater; I pitched forward and found myself lying at the bottom of the hole. Russian grape filled the air like a sheet inches above me, and so I lay flat in the mud, knowing that to rise at that point was to face certain death.

I hope you will believe that it was not cowardice that kept me down, Father; as I lay in that hole, the stink of blood and cordite in my nostrils, rage ate at my soul, and I promised myself that once I had the opportunity I would resume the assault and sell my life dear.

At length, with shot still sizzling around me, I clambered out of my shelter, raised my Minie and ran forward.

I was greeted by the most fantastic sight.

Siege ladders lay like pickup sticks about the plain; and men—and fragments of men—lay strewn among them, adorned with smoking shot and pieces of shell. Only one ladder, I saw, had by some miracle been raised against the redoubt’s brooding wall: its bearers lay crumpled in a muddy pile, arms and legs everywhere, at its base. And the Russian guns stared undaunted from the redoubt’s every embrasure.

The retreat sounded and, under a renewed hail of grape from our unwelcoming hosts, we limped back to our trenches.

And so ended my first experience of combat, Father; and that evening I lay sorely troubled. For how could the death of so many fine men be justified for such an absurd bungle?

The next week was a grim time. For hour after hour rough carts drew up among our tents and huts, and our poor injured lads were loaded aboard and hauled off for the jolting journey to the hospital three miles away at the coast.

Their cries and weeping were terrible to hear. And day and night, as if to mock our failure and frustration, the Russian artillery bellowed.

No less disturbing to us were the hints we received of ructions among our Commanding Officers. Around the clock the conferences went on, and more than once I saw a grand gentleman emerge from Lord Raglan’s tent and go stalking around the camp in high dudgeon, scarred cheeks blazing with anger, white gloves slapping against jostling scabbard. And several times we saw the engineer, Traveller, trotting across the camp site to Raglan’s tent bearing mysterious plans and other specifications; and so we knew that the deployment, at last, of this strange stuff anti-ice must be under consideration.

But of Lord Raglan himself we saw no sign. I imagined that gentleman, Father, his face drawn with care and sickness and his head full of memories of Waterloo and the Iron Duke, at the eye of a storm of disrespect and interrogation.

At last, on 27th June, our Captain called us together. His expression grim, he informed us that Lord Fitzroy Raglan had died the previous day, the 26th; that General Sir James Simpson had been appointed our new Commander-in-Chief; and that we should prepare ourselves for a fresh assault within twenty-four hours. This assault, said the Captain, would follow “a new artillery barrage of unprecedented ferocity.”

Then he stalked away from us, his back stiff, refusing to say any more.

We were never told the cause of Raglan’s death. Some say he died of disappointment, after that last, failed assault on the Russian redoubts; but I cannot believe it. For even a month earlier, when he visited our camp, Father, care and fatigue had seemed etched into that noble face. Now, God forbid that you should ever see a victim of the Cholera, Sir—I have seen too many—but if you do you will, I am sure, remark on the drained, troubled appearance of that unfortunate; and so I have no doubt of the cause of Raglan’s doom.

Men like Raglan do not die of broken hearts, I say.

That night we retired to our muddy billets. I did not sleep well, Father, but not through apprehension, or excitement, or even the constant shouting of the artillery; rather I felt sunk in depression, I have to report, following the deaths of so many good fellows—and now of Raglan himself—to such little effect. It seemed to me that night as if the English Army itself were dying, there on the plains of the Crimea.

We were roused at dawn. The bugles and drums were silent, but nevertheless we were told to draw up in drill formation and to prepare to advance.

And so I turned out, my fingers jammed into my cuffs to escape the gray cold of dawn, the webbing of my Minie chafing at my unshaven neck. The barrage from the artillery behind us went on unabated; as did, I noted, the replies from the redoubts of Sebastopol, and a sick apprehension gripped me. For if the Russian guns had not been subdued, our assault would be another suicidal charge. Once again, Father, I beg that you do not think me a coward; but I had—and have—no desire to sell my life without profit, and such seemed the prospect before me at that moment.

Then the guns behind us grew quiet, all of a sudden; and soon, as if in response, those of the Russians also lapsed into calmness. A silence fell over our camp, and it combined with the misty dawn light into a strangeness that made me wrap my arms around myself, shivering. The only motion was that of the Little Moon which rose above us, a dazzling beacon of light, setting off on another of its half-hour jaunts across the sky. I looked around, seeking reassurance in the lines of drawn, uncertain faces all around me; but comfort there was none. It was as if we had all, infantrymen, Officers and horses, been transported to some distant, gray star.

I held my breath.

Then, from the Allied emplacements behind me, I heard the speaking of a single artillery piece.

I was later given an account by a friendly Artilleryman of the few moments which had preceded that single shot. This gunner had watched as the engineer Josiah Traveller approached a particular emplacement, his stovepipe hat screwed tightly down around his ears. The fellow wore thick leather gloves which, according to my reporter, added up to a rather comical effect; and at arms’ length he carried a large metal cask that shone with frost, as if it were as cold as death. Following Traveller came Sir James Simpson himself and several of his staff, their faces grim, their epaulettes and decorations gleaming. At the muzzle of the gun the engineer placed his cask on the ground and, by loosening clasps, cracked it open. Its central cavity was quite small, my friend reported, so that the walls of the cask were some inches thick and might, he speculated, have contained some substance which kept the temperature of the cask unnaturally low.

Inside the cavity was a single shell, of size about ten pounds. This the engineer lifted as delicately as if it were a child and placed it gently in the muzzle of the artillery piece. Then Traveller stood back.

The gun fired, with a muffled explosion like a cough. Within seconds that single, precious shell was arcing above my head, bearing a few ounces of anti-ice to Sebastopol.

From my position I could not see the town itself, but still I peered over the heads of my colleagues in anticipation as that shell made for the battered fortress; I even pushed back my cap and peaked my hand over my eyes, the better to see.

I have since learned something of the properties of that strange substance anti-ice, Father. It is mined from a strange seam in the frozen ocean of the South Pole, and as long as it is maintained at those frosty temperatures it is perfectly safe. Once it is heated, however—

Well, let me describe to you what I saw.

The shell shriek fell away.

Then it was as if the Sun had touched the Earth.

The horizon in the direction of Sebastopol exploded into a silent sea of light. It was a light that tore into the skin, so that one could feel the very blisters as they rose. I staggered back, my cries of shock and horror joining those of my companions. I dropped my hand from my forehead and stared at it; scorched and blistering, the hand was like a grotesque waxwork, not part of my body at all. Then the pain reached my dull wits and I yelled; and as I did so I felt my scorched cheeks crack and ooze, and I soon shut up. But, Father, I soon learned that I had once more been undeservedly fortunate; for my hand had shielded my sight from the worst of that shock of light, while all around me fellows had crumpled to the soil, pressing their burnt eyes. Then—only a few seconds after that great optical concussion—there came a wind like the breath of God. I was bowled over backwards, and I tucked my blasted hand into my uniform to protect it; I clung to the ground amid a hail of dust and screamed into the wind.

The heat was astonishing.

Long minutes later that gale subsided, and I staggered to my feet. Men, burned and weeping—weapons—the remains of tents—terrified horses—all lay scattered over the ground like the toys of some capricious child-giant. Father, within less than a quarter-hour our camp had been devastated to a far greater extent than either the Russians, Dame Cholera, or Generals January and February had managed hitherto.

Meanwhile, over Sebastopol, a cloud shaped like a black hammer rose into the air.

A fellow beside me lay weeping, his eyes pools of cloudy liquid—horribly like the eyes of a boiled trout. For the next minutes I crouched by him and grasped his hand, mutely offering what comfort I could. Then an Officer came by—his uniform was scorched and unrecognizable, but the remains of a sword still swung at his hip—and I called up to him. “What have they done to us, your honor? Is this some devilish new weapon of the Cossacks?”

He paused and looked down at me. He was a young man, but that infernal light had blasted lines of age into his face; and he said: “No, lad, not the Cossacks; that was one of our own.”

At first I could not understand him, but he pointed to the dispersing cloud over Sebastopol, and I came to see the astonishing truth: that the engineer’s single shell, impacting Sebastopol, had caused an explosion of such severity that even we—at a distance of three miles—had been incapacitated.

Clearly the power of the novel projectile had been grossly underestimated; otherwise surely we would have been confined to our trenches and foxholes.

Slowly I became aware that the Russian guns, a constant chorus since my arrival on the Peninsula, were stilled at last. Had we then achieved our main objective? With this one, single, devastating blow, was Sebastopol laid low?

A trace of exultation, of victory, coursed through my veins; but my own pain, the devastation around me, and that looming thunderhead over Sebastopol, all worked rapidly to subdue me; and from those left standing near me I heard not a word of rejoicing.

It was still only seven-thirty.

The Officers organized us quickly. Those of us reasonably able-bodied—which included me, Father, once my poor hand was salved, bandaged up and wrapped in a thick mitten—were put to work aiding the rest. We erected our tents once more and restored the camp into something resembling a British military operation.

Then the lines of hospital carts began to form.

So we were occupied until noon, by which time the sun was high overhead. I sat in the shade, salt sweat coursing into my burns, and ate Bully Beef and sipped water through cracked lips.

Though the thunderhead was cleared now, there was still not a sound from the Russian guns in Sebastopol.

At about two of the afternoon we were ordered to form up for the final assault. But, Father, a strange assault it was going to be: we carried our Minies and ammo, yes; but also we hauled trench shovels, picks and other tools, and we loaded up carts with all the blankets, bandages, medication, water we could spare.

And so we set off over the last three miles to Sebastopol.

It took two hours, I would guess. After ten months of artillery bombardment and siege warfare the land was an ocean of churned, crusty mud; continually I slipped into shell pits, and before long all of us were soaked by foul-smelling, brackish water. And everywhere I came across the rubble of warfare: cracked shell casings, abandoned kit, the wreckage of artillery pieces… and one or two ornaments of a more grisly nature which, with respect, Father, I will forbear to describe.

But at last we reached Sebastopol; and I stood for some minutes on a rise overlooking the town.

Father, you will recall my earlier description of that town as it lay intact within its walls, which had bristled with weaponry. Well, now it was as if a great boot had stamped—I can think of no other way to describe it. A crater perhaps a quarter-mile wide lay plumb in the center of the city, close to the docks; and I could see how the gouged earth continued to steam, the rocks and slag glowing red hot. And around this crater was a great circle, where the houses and other buildings had been razed, quite neatly; one could see the outlines of their foundations, as if one were staring at a giant architect’s plan—although here and there a chimney stack or fragment of wall, scorched to blackness, clung defiantly to the vertical. Beyond that region of devastation the buildings appeared to have remained largely intact—but of windows and roof slates there was scarcely an example. And in several quarters of the town we saw great fires raging, apparently uncontrolled.

The stout defensive walls of the town were trails of rubble now, toppled outwards by the blast; the muzzles of wrecked artillery pieces pointed at random to the sky. And the redoubts lay shattered; Russians in their shapeless uniforms sprawled over the ruins of their guns.

Beyond this infernal landscape the bay lay glimmering blue, quite unperturbed; but the corpses of several vessels lay adrift in the water, their masts snapped.

For some minutes we stared slack-mouthed. Then the Captain said, “Come on, lads; we have our duty to perform.”

We formed up once more. A bugle and drum struck up, their rousing sounds sharply misplaced, and we marched across the wreckage of the walls.

So, at last, at about four in the afternoon, the British Army entered Sebastopol.

At first we carried our weapons at battle ready and moved in good military order, with scouts and lookouts; but the only sound was the crunch of glass and smashed masonry under our boots, and it was as if we marched across the surface of the Moon. Even on the outskirts of town the buildings were uniformly scorched and blackened, and I was reminded of that terrible heat which had blazed from the heart of the city. We came across one house which looked as if it had been sliced open, so that we could see within to the furnishings and decorations of its unfortunate occupants. Smashed vehicles of all sizes littered the streets, dead or injured horses trapped in their harnesses still.

And the people:

Father, they lay everywhere as they had fallen, men, women and children alike, their bodies twisted and cast down like dolls, their dumpy Russian clothing torn, bloodied and smouldering. Somehow the attitudes of these unfortunate corpses made them seem less than human, and I felt only a sickened numbness.

Then we met our first living Russian.

He came limping through a doorway which no longer led anywhere. He was a soldier—an Officer, for all I could tell—and around me I could hear chaps murmuring and fingering their arms. But this poor fellow had lost his cap, carried no weapon of any kind, and, one foot dangling behind him, was managing to walk only by supporting himself on a crutch improvised from a piece of timber. The Captain ordered us to shoulder arms. The fellow began to jabber in that guttural tongue of theirs, and gradually the Captain worked out that there were several people, perhaps a dozen, trapped in the wreckage of a schoolhouse, some hundreds of yards away.

A detail of chaps was issued with shovels and other gear and sent with the Russian.

And so it went, for the next several days. Father, as far as I know not a shot was fired in anger in Sebastopol after the falling of the anti-ice shell; instead we worked side by side with the Russian survivors—and with the French and Turks—in the guts of that felled port.

I remember a child, lying on her back, a red scarf wrapped around her head. She held one hand up to the sky which had betrayed her, and her fingers burned like candles. One chap came out of the wreckage of a sailmaking factory, hauling himself by his arms only; he left a red, glistening trail as he moved, like some ghastly slug…

Father, I have chosen to relate these things to you; but I know that you will not allow Mother or young Ned to become distressed by a repetition of this account.

The greatest single labor was clearing the corpses; but this we could not achieve fast enough. After a few days under the hot Crimean sun the stink of the place was impossible to bear; and across our mouths we all wore kerchiefs soaked in “raki.”

The strangest sight I saw came after a few days, when I was sent into that crater at the heart of the town. We had to wrap soaked rags around our boots as, even then, the masonry was still hot enough to burn the skin. Here I found a slab of wall which poked like a large, irregular tombstone out of the shattered earth. This wall was uniformly blackened—save for an oddly shaped patch close to ground level; and this patch, I realized after some time, was in the shape of an old woman, making her painful way along the street.

Father, the wall bore the shadow cast by that poor lady in the light of the anti-ice shell. Of the lady herself there was of course no sign; and neither did we find any survivors in that part of the city.

More than once I came across the engineer, Traveller, laboring with the rest of us; and once I saw tears coursing down his grimy cheeks. Perhaps, we speculated, even he had not appreciated the devastation to be achieved by his invention. I wondered how this Traveller would spend the rest of his days; and what other miracles—or curses—of anti-ice he might spawn.

But I did not approach him, and I know no one who did.

There is little else to say, dear Father. I was relieved of my work in Sebastopol once fresh troops and equipment arrived from Britain and France; now, after nine or ten days, the town—though wrecked—is a little less like a scene from the “Divine Comedy;” and the harbor is beginning to function again.

The months of siege are, of course, at an end, and the war is won. But since our occupation of the town we have learned that prior to the anti-ice bombardment the Russians were already losing a thousand lives a day, thanks to our artillery shots and the various privations they suffered. Their mood apparently had been growing increasingly desperate, and—I am told—their Officers had been considering a final gamble, a break-out and assault which, I am confident, we could have fielded and so won the war.

So, Father—did the anti-ice have to be used? Could we have won without such suffering among the population of the town?

I fear that only God, the Master of more Worlds than this, knows the answers to such questions.

As to myself: the Doctor has told me that I should regain partial use of my burnt hand, with time, though it will never be a pretty sight, and I will never hold a fiddle with it! And speaking of pretty sights—I must report this in advance of the meeting and reconciliation between us which, I hope, will one day come—I fear that my face has been scarred by the anti-ice flames, and will remain so marked throughout my life—all save the distinctive and quite unmistakable shadow of the hand which I had held cupped over my eyes, at the moment when that unusual shell fell on Sebastopol.

Father, I will close now. Please forward my love and devotion to Mother and Ned; as I say, I hope to see you all once more, if you will have me, on my return to England; at which date I will be able to thank you, Father, for the reparations you have made to the young lady whose honor I so carelessly mistreated with the actions of my youth.

May God keep you, Sir.

I Remain, with Love,

Your Devoted Son

HEDLEY VICARS