Gypsy Jewel (5 page)

“Where should we point our cannon? It all looks a lost cause to me.”

Damien scanned the seemingly impenetrable walls, now swarming with men firing haphazardly out at the
Constant Star
, though she was still out of range.

“Come round to the left; I recall there’s old damage from previous wars that has yet to be repaired.”

Admiral Brady did as advised and soon they could make out faint chinks in the stone where a hasty patch had been made.

“Bless ye, my lord,” Brady cried, “we’ll take her yet.” The admiral hollered orders at his men again, and black smoke belched from the ship’s belly. Damien soberly watched several distant soldiers on the walls of Sevastopol hurtle to their deaths.

In his excitement, Brady’s voice took on a stronger, more pronounced accent. “We’ll hit again in the same spot and rub them right sore. See if that bloody czar doesn’t wet his trews to be staring down our cannon now.”

Damien made no comment, but privately he thought that if Czar Nicholas bothered to be on the front with his men, which was unlikely, he would surely not gamble his life peering out over the walls at one ship among many.

“They’ll curse us now,” Brady shouted, his ruddy face taking on a sheen of pure devilish glee as the guns roared again. But during the fighting they had drifted closer in, and were near enough to the city now that the Russians were finally able to hurl back fire of their own.

Just to Damien’s left a soldier took a ball in his chest and fell screaming to the deck. As he ducked and crawled to the man, he heard more shot whistling overhead, and the curses and cries of other men randomly struck.

“Renault, can you hear me?” Damien shouted over the fracas as he looked down into the agonized face of a fellow French officer who had served with him in Algeria.

“Must you shout at a dying man? Sweet Jesu, I had enough of that in Constantine.” Though he weakly joked, blood bubbled from Jacques Renault’s lips, and Damien ground his own teeth in mute despair.

“I’ll find the ship’s surgeon. You must hold on, man!”

But in the next few minutes as Damien’s eyes desperately sought the bloodied decks for any sign of the physician Lindley, he also knew with gut-wrenching certainty that it was too late for his friend. In his growing delirium, Jacques lapsed into French and muttered longingly of Paris and her pleasures. Damien could only murmur in commiseration with the dying man until at last Renault was silent and still.

Damien bowed his head to the deck and mourned for a friend who had joined him eagerly in this latest campaign. Like all the others aboard ship, he was to stare Lord Death in the face many more times that day, but it never got any easier, and he only grew more hardened as the Black Sea quickly turned to red.

W
HAT BEGAN AS A
straightforward intervention to check Russia’s ambitions in the Mediterranean soon deteriorated into a vicious, bloody battle that saw thousands of unnecessary deaths on each side.

Getting supplies overland was all but impossible, and when Damien and the other men were at last able to go ashore, they found fellow ground forces already covered with chilblains and frostbite, their boots literally worn off their feet, but no replacements to be found. Unused to the brutality of a Crimean winter, many European soldiers were losing limbs and their lives in the harsh climate.

The weeks that followed were hardly more than a living hell. A blizzard struck in early October, and men died like flies from the cold and the cholera. Half-frozen corpses were left lying scattered where they fell, since the ground was too hard to dig graves. Damien took a wound in his upper right shoulder at the conflict along the Alma River, where over eight thousand men had died.

For two weeks he carried his useless arm in a filthy sling, using his left hand for any necessary work. Then, when a fellow officer insisted the wound be looked at in the medical tent, Damien was one of the first to receive the gentle ministrations of one of the recently arrived and desperately needed nurses. It was from her that he learned of the true horror of this war; more than twice the men were dying from disease than from battle wounds.

After only a month of fighting, the harbor was blocked by sunken ships and it was obvious that no more supplies were forthcoming by sea. Admiral Lyons was in charge of the port blockade, and though he periodically sent small boats in with foodstuffs and medicine, the provisions never lasted more than a few days.

Between skirmishes, the British had managed to set up a permanent base at Balaklava, and the French at Kamiesch. Damien stayed with the British contingent to rally his men. It would have been easy to avoid the battlefield as other commanding officers had done, sending out the enlisted ranks to fight and die like animals. Damien’s conscience would not let him do so, and his popularity with the soldiers grew by leaps and bounds.

Behind his optimistic facade, Damien burned with helpless frustration. He was forced to watch as disheartened British soldiers broke and ran, scattering the lines, and he heard boys too young to grow beards scream with agony when their frozen limbs were amputated in the medical tent.

In his own numb, mindless world, he took one day at a time, serving on the front lines and then falling back to recoup, sometimes assisting the too few physicians in hasty operations by holding a man down or pouring rotgut into an open mouth to ease the agony.

Though it initially appeared that the Russians would have an easy win, used to the weather as they were, the slow passage of days finally saw the tide beginning to turn. More soldiers and fresh supplies occasionally arrived from Europe, boosting morale and resolve in the wearied troops.

Damien received word from his mother at last, after having been seven months away from home, and a wry grin twisted his mouth as he read the familiar spidery scrawl on rose-scented parchment dated four months ago.

Mon fils, I hope this letter finds you well and alive after so long away. Of course I realize that the mail service is dreadful during wartime, but I have heard nothing from you or of you … if you are injured or not. However, as you suggested, I have taken respite in France and returned to the chateau to pass the dreary winter months. Mistgrove is closed up and I dismissed the servants with ample wages until your return. Dear Henriette is as frantic as I for word about you. I told her I had heard nothing, but she still calls on me every week. Please, if you find a moment to spare for your poor Maman, write to me here at Villette. In the meantime, I will drown my sorrows with the distraction of a fête at Fontainebleau, for which I will wear half-mourning in a lovely dark purple velvet until I hear from you again
…

The rest of the letter went on to detail several other gowns Marcelle had purchased for the dramatic effect she so loved, and Damien shook his head with a smile as he folded the letter and tucked it away in his shirt pocket.

His mother was still young enough to be courted, having had Damien when she was only sixteen, and Marcelle had often been accused by the other court ladies of having a secret potion that kept her so beautiful.

Damien suspected that his mother’s secret was having a host of lovers half her age. It was not hard to imagine how his staid, proper English sire had succumbed to Marcelle’s sparkling charm. The harder question had always been why Damien did not have a dozen brothers and sisters, considering how much time his parents had spent in their bedchamber. Now that he was older and wiser, Damien supposed that Marcelle had merely availed herself of one of the tricks that were popular for preventing pregnancy.

But since Edward Cross’s untimely death due to a heart condition, his mother had spent less and less time at the Devon estate. Longing for France as she always had, Marcelle was a hothouse flower that quickly wilted in the cold English winters and rainy springs. Damien expected she would eventually declare a firm preference for Chateau de Villette and leave the management of the Mistgrove estate entirely up to him.

In his youth, Damien had spent equal time in both countries and found advantages and drawbacks to each. In the queen’s court he was a noted favorite and had only to ask for what he desired. The same had once been true when France was a republic, but in the new empire Damien was less sure of where he stood. Still, his mother’s name was not without influence there. In their day, the de Villettes had been a powerful and wealthy family, and their holdings in the north of France were still considerable.

Naturally, the pressure had been upon Damien since he was barely out of nappies to secure a fine match and produce more heirs for the earldom in England. He had been betrothed twice, unbeknownst to him until Edward’s death, to two different girls of approved families. His father had apparently not considered Damien’s wishes of much import, and so the younger man had been surprised and outraged to learn of such machinations when Edward suddenly died.

The third earl of Devonshire had always been a decisive man, with all but his wife Marcelle, who had somehow always managed to wheedle and charm Edward into doing her bidding. Such was how Damien had come to have a French first name, though by tradition eldest boys were usually named for their sires. By guile or wile Marcelle had wrangled that feat, as well as many others during her marriage.

By now Damien had also learned his mother had saved him from disastrous marriages to either of the two debutantes Edward had selected — young ladies who both later turned out to be vicious shrews who drove their respective husbands to early graves.

Women, Damien had decided a decade ago, were better kept for pleasures of the moment, not years of conjugal misery. He had mistresses in both European courts, one of which was the delectable Henriette his mother had referred to in her letter, but he was always careful to choose ladies who were wise enough not to press him for commitments. Someday, he supposed, he would succumb to society’s standards and take a wife pretty enough to pass court inspection and mindless enough to produce the necessary sons year after year.

Sometimes, though, he envied the men who spoke wistfully of their country wives, women without ambition who placed no shrill demands upon a man’s time or money, and who were a species apart from the helpless butterflies that flitted around the European courts, scheming only to snare rich husbands.

Damien was astute enough to realize the beauties he dallied with at court would never spend time with him if he lacked or lost the fortune he had now. With an idle smile, he found himself recalling the pretty gypsy waif he had rescued from likely disaster several years ago in Constantinople. How long had it been — three, four years? And he imagined that if that little one had fulfilled her promise in this time, she was no doubt a bright, beautiful young woman. And also, no doubt, long wed as well.

Perhaps there was no woman in the world who could suit him. It would, he thought ruefully, take a remarkable girl indeed to fulfill his desire for beauty and intelligence. He found stupid, pretty women exasperating, and bookish females usually had faces and figures to match. Somewhere, someday, he hoped to find a lady who could outshine them all. And, if she also had an adventurous spirit to equal his own, he would count himself then among the luckiest of men.

B
Y MID-
O
CTOBER, THE
Russian commander Prince Alexsandr Menshikov had pulled back to regroup, but still clung stubbornly to Bakhchisarai. Meanwhile, French Marshal Saint-Arnaud finally succumbed to the cholera that had plagued him since the onset of the war. His funeral was hasty and grim, as there was no time to waste on formalities during war.

At the dismal field quarters at Balaklava, Damien grew increasingly bitter. He could hardly blame his men for not wanting to follow in the footsteps of fallen comrades. It was all he could do himself to pick up a gun and slog through the stinking red snow, never knowing what waited ahead.

Eventually it occurred to him that a quicker solution might be found if only they could read the czar’s mind, but of course that was impossible. The combined efforts of France and England to insinuate spies in the Russian court had only met with disastrous results.

If only they had a better, less obvious way to tap the secret rivers of information. Damien had mentioned this once to his comrade in arms, Lord Raglan, who had led the British army in the initial attack on Sevastopol. Often the two men met to pass the time and discuss different strategies.

To Damien’s surprise, Lord Raglan reminded him of his idea when next they happened to share a rare moment of peace in the officers’ quarters on the field.

“I’ve been thinking of your remark since last we met, about how we might ford the shield around Nicholas and get an insight into his next move,” James began as he carefully poured steaming tea into a set of mismatched, chipped cups for Damien and himself.

Though he had lost his right arm at the age of twenty-seven at Waterloo, Fitzroy James Henry Raglan, the Earl of Somerset, had used the ensuing years to master the most intricate tasks with ease. Given his peerage late in life, Lord Raglan was the epitome of British nobility.

Raglan thought a moment before proceeding with his discourse. Not a man given to quick passions, he had proven his careful style often on the battlefield. And he had watched Damien Cross closely over the past month, both in amazement and admiration at the way the younger earl maintained optimism in the ranks at the worst odds.

“As you know,” Raglan said at last, “Nicholas has set his sights on reclaiming Constantinople, and he’s apparently determined enough to keep up this bloody war for years, if need be.”

Damien nodded as he sipped his tea. “I can’t see how the czar can afford to lose as many men as he has. Only a madman would keep going under these circumstances.”

Lord Raglan chuckled and leaned back in his collapsible canvas chair. “I suppose the same could be said for us. But who can say what a madman will do next? The queen’s most brilliant advisers are unable to predict his next move. At Pembroke Lodge they all huddle and murmur like a pack of old women, but only a man on the front can reasonably predict the enemy’s next move.”