TEMPORAL AGENT by Michel Poulin - HTML preview

CHAPTER 12 – THE ANGEL OF BALAKLAVA

 

13:59 (Crimea Time)

Saturday, October 7, 1854

British cavalry division camp

Kadikoi, Crimea

“JEANNE IS BACK!”

Emma Armstrong’s joyous shout attracted Margaret Ward, along with the rest of the ambulance staff, out of their tents. Coming from Balaklava Harbor was a procession of twenty pack horses, with a smiling Jeanne Smythe in the lead. Jeanne was wearing her familiar riding skirt and short tunic outfit and looked healthy and in good spirits. Margaret Ward won the race for being the first to get to Jeanne and hug her as the latter dismounted. The French woman was soon surrounded by Doctor Farrell and a dozen excited women all trying to ask questions about her trip to Constantinople. Jeanne finally had to raise her arms and shout.

“Alright, girls, give me time to arrive first and get these supplies unloaded and stored away.”

Jeanne then grabbed Thomas Farrell by one arm and took him aside, speaking to him in a low voice.

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“How is the medical situation here, Doc?”

“Actually, not bad at all, Jeanne. We presently have two cases of cholera, two of local fevers and one man wounded lightly by a bullet. We are managing quite well, especially now that you brought all those extra supplies.”

“Excellent! Once these supplies are unloaded, I will go back to the port with the pack horses to get more supplies from my ship. By the way, would you know where my dear husband would be now?”

“Probably patrolling the Woronzoff Road that leads to the army main camp, like he does every day. He normally is back before darkness.”

“Good! I have a little something nice for him from Constantinople.” Farrell watched Jeanne then go direct the unloading of her pack horses, shaking his head in wonderment before returning to his patients.

 

19:09 (Constantinople Time)

British cavalry division camp

Kadikoi, Crimea

Gordon Smythe, leading his fifteen-man patrol back into camp in the growing darkness and cold, stopped his horse near the regimental ambulance and contemplated with surprise the numerous piles lined near the medical wagon, their nature hidden by tarps thrown over them and anchored solidly by ropes and pickets. There were also two more big covered wagons and twenty extra horses within the infirmary’s lines.

“What the hell is all this?” he asked himself. Corporal Ward advanced his horse alongside Gordon’s horse while looking at the piles.

“If I may hazard a guess, sir, this may signal that your wife is back from Constantinople. This typically looks like one of her hat tricks.”

“I’d say, Corporal!” said Gordon happily. “Would you mind leading the men back to their tents? I will go report to Major Henry in one hour.”

“No worry, sir. Have a good time, sir.” replied Ward in a knowing tone. Gordon let that remark pass, too anxious to see Jeanne to sit on regulations. Getting off his horse as Ward led the patrol away, he tied his horse to the pole where the horses and mules of the medical section were tied as well, then entered the treatment tent. He found Doctor Farrell, helped by Mary Pearson and Emma Armstrong, changing the

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bandages of Trooper Harris, who had received a bullet in the left arm during a skirmish with a Russian patrol three days ago. Farrell smiled up at him the moment he came in the tent.

“If you are looking for Jeanne, she has been waiting for you in the nurses’ tent for the last hour. She has a surprise for you.”

“A surprise?” said Gordon, his smile becoming a grin. “Then I better not make her wait longer.”

Mary Pearson and Emma Armstrong exchanged a knowing smile as the tall, broad-shouldered officer left.

“God, what a nice-looking man.” said Mary. “Jeanne is truly a lucky girl to have him.”

Gordon hesitated at the entrance of the nurses’ tent, afraid of disturbing any woman who could be inside at this time. He finally called out loud.

“Jeanne, are you in there? It’s me, Gordon.”

“You can come in, dear!” answered back his wife through the canvas. Stepping gingerly inside, Gordon abruptly stopped as he stared wide-eyed at Jeanne. Lying on a bear fur laid in the middle of the tent, she was wearing a vaporous Persian dancer’s costume straight out of the Arabian Nights Tales. Smiling invitingly at Gordon, she motioned with her right index for approach.

“Come here, you nice hunk.”

Gordon didn’t make her wait a moment longer.

After making the men take care of their horses first, Corporal Ward was about to lead them to the regimental kitchen, hoping to find something to eat there after their long patrol, when his wife Margaret showed with Patricia Foster. The two women each held one of the handles of a covered cooking pot, apart from carrying bread loaves and wine bottles in wicker baskets. Margaret gave a quick kiss to her husband before making an announcement to the men of the patrol.

“Don’t bother going to the kitchen, guys: Lady Jeanne brought back lots of goodies from Constantinople today and you are on her gift list. The menu for this supper is corned beef hash, fresh bread and wine.”

“Corned beef hash?” said one of the troopers, his mouth watering already. “We haven’t seen beef in weeks.”

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“We know!” replied Margaret, grinning. “That’s why we’re here. Get your plates ready, men.”

The men of B Troop went to bed content that night, some even more content than the others thanks to some intimate time with their wives arranged by the good offices of Jeanne Smythe. Morale definitely went up by a few notches that evening.

Going away in the early morning on his daily patrols, Gordon returned to camp in the evening to find a large new tent complex in the process of being put up. Contrary to the usual collection of individual tents used by the army, the large marquee tents of the complex were of a model that could be assembled together end-to-end to form long, spacious shelters. The complex actually was shaped like a ‘H’, with two long parallel rows of interconnected tents linked in the center by a section formed by three marquee tents. A number of marquee tents were also attached individually to the arms of the complex. Besides the large tent complex, another group of marquee tents tied together sat maybe thirty yards away, while a row of four individual marquee tents was positioned facing one of the extremities of the separate tent group. A number of civilian workers whom Gordon recognized from their spoken language as Turkish men were busy assembling and erecting the tents which were still not in place. More Turkish workers were building a sort of palisade enclosing the whole complex of tents, using poles and planks taken from a large pile of construction wood brought on the preceding day. That sight made Gordon smile with pride.

‘’Decidedly, Jeanne never wastes time.’’

While this happened in Kadikoi, the army wasn’t idle by any means, the men working hard to dig trench works and gun emplacements for the ninety heavy artillery pieces which would soon bombard the besieged city of Sebastopol. On October the seventeenth, both the British and French siege guns opened up on the fortified city, with Russian guns answering back with gusto. The Russians were actually the first to score big that day, managing a hit that blew up one of the French artillery powder magazines and silencing their guns for a while. The new Hussars field hospital in Kadikoi rapidly filled with wounded men as casualties from the artillery exchange mounted. The mood around was quite sullen then: the hardest part of the war was yet to come and few failed to realize that by now.

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06:23 (Constantinople Time)

Wednesday, October 25, 1854

HMS SANS PAREIL, Balaklava harbor

Crimea

Hurried knocks on the door of her cabin finished waking up Fanny Duberly, who then quickly put on a robe while shouting towards the door.

“Who is it?”

“First Officer Pritchard, madam.” answered a male voice. “I have an urgent note for your from your husband.”

“Hold on, I’m coming!”

Going to the door and unlocking it, Fanny cracked it open and faced the tall, thin navy officer, who passed her a piece of paper.

“Lieutenant Duberly also sent you your horse, madam. It is waiting for you on the quayside.”

“Thank you, sir!” replied Fanny, taking the paper and then closing the door. She was now conscious of the rumble of distant gunfire as she read the paper.

The battle of Balaklava has begun and promises to be a hot one. I send you the

horse. Lose no time, but come up as quickly as you can: do not wait for

breakfast.

Excitement overtaking her, Fanny dressed in record time, then ran out of her cabin to pick up her horse, which she found on the quay, its reins held by a servant. Getting on it Amazon style and galloping hard through the filthy, stinking streets of Balaklava, she hardly had time to be clear of the town before she met a Commissariat purveyor riding into town. The man seemed to be bordering on panic as he signaled Fanny to halt, shouting frantically as well.

“THE TURKS HOLDING THE CAUSEWAY HEIGHTS HAVE ABANDONED THEIR BATTERIES AND ARE RUNNING TOWARDS BALAKLAVA. IF YOU HAVE TO GO OUT, KEEP AS MUCH TO THE LEFT AS POSSIBLE AND DON’T LOSE TIME IN GETTING AMONGST OUR OWN MEN, AS THE RUSSIAN CAVALRY IS POURING IN. FOR GOD’S SAKE, RIDE FAST, OR YOU MAY NOT REACH THE CAMP ALIVE!”

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“Thank you for the warning, sir. Where is Lord Raglan and his staff now?”

“Up there!” replied the man, pointing at the nearby heights to the North before riding away. Her heart now beating furiously, Fanny rode hard towards those heights.

While going through the British cavalry camp at Kadikoi, she noticed that it was nearly deserted by now. The ambulance cart was also gone from the hospital’s yard, with Doctor Farrell, Sarah Champion and Mary Pearson about to leave in the medical wagon. Thankfully, Fanny did not see any Russians before arriving on the heights where the British command staff was observing the battle. A number of other civilians, including William Russell, were there as well. Dismounting with the help of the journalist, Fanny then looked down anxiously to the East as Russell explained the situation to her.

“The Russians have taken all six redoubts along the Causeway Heights, driving out the Turks in disorder. Our Light Cavalry Brigade is now posted at the extreme west of the valley north of the Causeway Heights, while the Heavy Brigade is positioning itself at the end of the south valley. Unfortunately, a large Russian cavalry force is riding down the heights, heading straight for our base in Balaklava. A single artillery battery and the 93rd Highlanders are the only things that can stop them now.” Fanny felt gloom as she stared at the thin line of men in red jackets holding the top of a nearby hill. A gray mass of Russian cavalrymen was now charging the unflinching Highlanders. A volley of rifle fire then hid everything in a thick cloud of white smoke. Fanny saw the Russians waver a bit. A second volley then made them turn around to the cheers of the British present. The Russians did however reform their lines and charged again, only to be driven off by a third volley and by fire from the gun battery positioned with the Highlanders. An excited Fanny, watching that Russian force retreat, suddenly saw another mass of Russian cavalrymen maybe 2,000 strong go down the south valley towards the Heavy Cavalry Brigade, which counted only 600 men.

“My God!” exclaimed the wife of a heavy brigade officer present in the crowd of spectators. “Our men are going to be submerged!”

“Where is the infantry, damn it?” raged Lord Raglan, standing a few yards away from Fanny, getting a sheepish answer from one of his staff officers.

“Uh, General Cathcart’s division will not be ready until after breakfast, sir.”

“WHAT?” shouted Raglan, his face reddening. “What about the First Division?”

“The Duke of Cambridge is on the march, sir, but won’t be there for another two hours, sir.”

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“Well, send a messenger to General Cathcart to tell him to forget breakfast and to haul his fat ass up to the battlefield right away.”

“Yes sir!” replied the staff officer before running to a liaison officer. Lord Raglan, repressing his impatience, then resumed his observation of the battle.

To everybody’s dismay, including that of the Russians, the commander of the Heavy Cavalry Brigade, General Scarlet, took the time to calmly and carefully line up his troopers, the British officers turning their backs to the Russians while placing their men. The subjugated Russians halted, wondering what those crazy British were doing. The answer soon came when the charge was sounded and the Heavy Brigade, led by Scarlet, rushed at the enemy. Colliding head on with the Russians, the British troopers disappeared in the gray mass, prompting desperate exclamations around Lord Raglan.

“God help them! They are lost!”

Contrary to all expectations, the British cavalrymen hacked their way through their foes and routed them in eight minutes with the help of some reinforcements from the 4th Dragoon Guards. Cheers went up from the spectators as the Russians retreated back to the top of the Causeway Heights. William Russell, still standing besides Fanny Duberly, was scribbling furiously while looking from time to time through his spyglass.

“By Jove, this is going to make one hell of a report!” he said, ecstatic. A shout from a staff officer then got everybody’s attention.

“Milord, the Russians are removing our guns from the redoubts on the Causeway Heights.”

Looking for a moment through his own spyglass, Lord Raglan then turned to his chief of staff.

“Get the Light Brigade to advance and prevent the guns from being taken away. Cardigan should be pursuing that Russian cavalry by now anyway.”

“Uh, Lord Cardigan has not moved yet, Milord.”

“Then what is he waiting for? God’s calling? He must move at once!”

“Yes, Milord!”

As the colonel was writing an order to be given to a liaison officer, Fanny borrowed William Russell’s spyglass for a moment to observe the Light Brigade in the distance, hoping to recognize Henry if he was indeed there. She quickly realized that the distance was too great for that, but she did recognize a familiar white and green cart stopped

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behind the troopers of the Light Brigade. A lone rider stood besides the cart, its long hair floating in the wind.

“God bless Jeanne! She’s right behind our men, along with our ambulance cart.”

“What? Let me see!” exclaimed Russell. A number of spectators and officers nearby, including a French general, had heard Fanny and also looked in that direction. The French general’s Aide, who spoke English, then went to Fanny and saluted her politely.

“Excuse me for disturbing you, madam, but General Bosquet wishes to know if you were referring to Lady Jeanne D’Orléans.”

“I was, sir. I believe that she intends to pick up any of our wounded as the battle goes on, like she did at the Alma.”

“I am not aware of her actions then, madam.” replied the French officer, surprised. “Could you tell me more about that?”

“With pleasure, sir!” said Fanny, who then spoke for a minute or so. The French officer nodded thoughtfully as she finished.

“A most brave lady. I will inform my general of this. Thank you for your time, madam.”

The officer then returned to General Bosquet, letting Fanny free to watch anxiously the Light Cavalry Brigade.

To Lord Raglan’s increasing impatience, Lord Cardigan’s brigade kept stationary despite the sending of successive orders to attack, while the British infantry was still mostly absent from the battlefield. By now the Russians were well on their way to finish pulling away the captured Turkish guns from the redoubts along the Causeway Heights. Finally having had enough of Cardigan’s inaction, Raglan wrote down one last order and gave it to Captain Lewis Nolan, the best rider on his staff.

“Bring this to Lord Lucan, so that he can make Lord Cardigan prevent the removal of our guns. Tell Lord Lucan to have the Heavy Brigade in support of the Light Brigade.”

“Right away, Milord!” replied Nolan, taking the note and saluting before getting on his horse and galloping away.

10:58 (Crimea Time)

Western end of North valley

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Like his men, Gordon Smythe could only wait and wonder as he watched Lord Lucan, who had just arrived with Captain Nolan of the higher staff, confer with Lord Cardigan. From their position low in the valley it was difficult to see what was going on around. Right now, Gordon could only see the large body of Russian cavalry that had gone back from the Causeway Heights to the far end of the valley to reform its ranks behind the guns of the Don Battery, plus more Russian guns and masses of infantry on the Fediukhin Heights to the left and on the Causeway Heights to the right. His blood suddenly chilled when he remembered something Jeanne had told him months ago, something he had not believed then.

“The Light Brigade will charge down a valley ringed on three sides by Russian guns, and it will be a massacre.”

Looking back towards Jeanne, who was sitting on her horse besides the ambulance cart no more than a hundred yards away, Gordon saw her apparently crying quietly. He then understood with horror and shock that she had known for a long time that this was going to happen, but that, for some reason, she would do nothing to prevent the charge despite the obvious distress it was causing her. Gordon looked around at his men, now knowing that he may not see many of them alive by the end of this day. Lord Cardigan turned towards the men then and pointed at the guns down the valley.

“THE BRIGADE WILL CHARGE GUNS TO THE FRONT!” Gordon waited for Lord Paget to repeat the order before shouting to the men of B Troop.

“B TROOP WILL CHARGE GUNS TO THE FRONT, IN BRIGADE FORMATION!”

The Hussars, which were in second line and on the right flank of the brigade, were containing their excitement with difficulty as Lord Paget shouted another order.

“SWORDS OUT!”

The whole regiment drew its swords as one. Paget then gave the order to move out at a trot as the regiments in the first line started moving forward in perfect alignment.

Janet O’Neil and Margaret Ward, sitting in the front of the cart, could only watch with dread the 632 men of the Light Brigade riding forward down the valley. The Heavy Brigade, led by Lord Lucan and General Scarlet, was now arriving to follow the Light Brigade down the valley. Arriving behind the Heavy Brigade was the Hussars’ medical wagon, its horses driven hard by Sarah Champion. As the Heavy Brigade formed up for

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a charge, Sarah drove her wagon to a stop besides the ambulance cart and applied the handbrakes before jumping down. Doctor Farrell and Mary Pearson joined her and frantically started to deploy the telescopic rear tent just as the Russian guns started firing on the Light Brigade. The women couldn’t help stop for a moment to look at their men, now a good 400 meters away and under a deluge of fire. They could plainly see men and horses go down, cut by the Russian artillery fire.

“Sean,” said Janet O’Neil tearfully to herself, “please get out of this alive!” While not saying a word, Margaret Ward was thinking the same about her husband Joseph and knew that the other women had to think similarly.

Riding in front of his troop, Gordon could see too well the men and horses being blown away or cut to shreds by the murderous Russian gunfire. At least one third of the troopers in the first line of the brigade were already down, with more falling nearly every second. The brigade was now at full gallop and 800 meters from that cursed Don Battery. Thousands of Russian cavalrymen stood waiting behind those guns but Lord Cardigan never wavered, leading his men straight down the mouths of those guns. The man may have been an incompetent martinet but he was no coward. At 500 meters from the guns, Cardigan rose his sword high and shouted.

“CHAARGE!”

A powerful concert of cheers and yells answered him and the remnants of the Light Brigade pushed their horses to the utmost, coming down on the terrified Russian gunners frantically trying to reload their pieces.

On Sapoune Ridge, Lord Raglan was watching the charge with increasing dismay and fury.

“What the hell do Lucan and Cardigan think they are doing? Right! Veer right or both brigades will be done in!”

“Maybe not, sir.” said softly his chief of staff. “We may yet salvage the Heavy Brigade out of this: I think that Lord Lucan is turning around now.” French General Bosquet, watching all this, shook his head sadly.

“C’est magnifique, mais ce n’est pas la guerre. C’est de la folie18!”

 

18 It is magnificent, but it is not war. It is madness! (true historical statement by General Bosquet).

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Margaret Ward got up on the bench seat of the cart as soon as she understood that the Heavy Brigade was not going to support the Light Brigade anymore.

“NOOO! OUR MEN NEED YOU, YOU COWARDS!”

“MARGARET!” shouted Jeanne harshly. “THEY TRIED THEIR BEST. LORD LUCAN WAS RIGHT TO TURN HIS BRIGADE AROUND.”

“BUT OUR MEN ARE IN THERE, DYING!” shouted back Margaret, nearly hysterical.

“I KNOW THAT, DAMMIT!” replied Jeanne, who then softened her voice. “IT IS UP TO US NOW TO SAVE AS MANY OF THEM AS WE CAN. FOLLOW ME AND DON’T LET ANYONE STOP YOU.”

Jeanne then launched her horse forward at a gallop, straight towards the Russian guns at the other end of the valley, followed by the ambulance cart. As terrified as they were, Janet and Margaret did not hesitate for one second: their husbands were in there somewhere, maybe dead or dying. The officers and men of the Heavy Brigade, retreating under artillery fire, were too surprised by seeing a woman riding a horse and two more women driving a cart and passing through their ranks to even attempt to stop them. Lord Lucan, his right shoulder slashed open by a piece of shrapnel, didn’t even notice them go by through the drifting white smoke from the Russian guns and din of the battlefield until General Scarlet, riding a few yards to his right, looked back and spoke in obvious surprise.

“What are those crazy women up to?”

“Uh? What women, General?”

“Lady Smythe and two other nurses on a cart, Milord.”

Looking back as well, Lucan only had time to see briefly a cart and a rider with long black hair disappear amidst the white smoke. A shell then burst nearby, reminding him of the precariousness of the situation of the Heavy Brigade.

“Keep withdrawing until the western end of the valley, General. We will then cover the retreat of any stragglers from the Light Brigade.”

“What about those women, Milord?”

“I’m afraid that they are on their own now.”

Feeling bad about this, Scarlet however didn’t insist and led his brigade back all the way.

There were no more than fifty riders from the first line left charging when it finally plowed through the Russian guns, Lord Cardigan still in the lead. Gordon Smythe and

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the other riders of the second line still in action also rode through the battery a few seconds later, hacking and slashing like madmen at the Russian gunners. Lord Paget, a short cigar still stuck between his teeth, soon saw the survivors of the first line turn around and retreat, pursued by a solid mass of Russian Lancers. He immediately shouted at his men, who were pursuing the surviving Russian gunners.

“HALT BOYS! HALT FRONT! IF WE DON’T HALT NOW, WE’RE DONE!” Gordon Smythe was firing his two revolvers to good effect, his rapid shots clearing the Russians around him, when he heard Paget’s order. Seeing as well the hundreds of Russian Lancers advancing on them, he then gathered his surviving men and covered their retreat as well as he could, emptying both of his revolvers in the process. Holstering them, he then drew his sword and started frantically hacking his way back to the British lines.

Fanny Duberly, having once again borrowed Russell’s spyglass to observe the desperate fight in the distance, suddenly shouted in a near hysterical voice, making the civilian spectators and army officers around her look sharply at her.

“MY GOD! JEANNE IS RIDING DOWN THE VALLEY, FOLLOWED BY OUR AMBULANCE CART!”

Consternation and disbelief ran through the crowd as Russell grabbed back his spyglass for a look.

“By Jove, you’re right, Misses Duberly. They’re now through the Heavy Brigade and are riding deeper in still.”

“They must be lunatics!” pronounced a fat ‘Traveling Gentleman’ who had been treating the battle like a circus show. “That is no place for women.” A resounding slap from Fanny then sent the surprised tourist on his bum.

“You, mister, are lucky that Jeanne didn’t hear this!” spat Fanny, enraged. “If she went in there, it was to help our wounded men on the battlefield, not to provide some cheap thrills to tourists like you.”

“I think that the cart and Jeanne just stopped near some bodies halfway down the valley.” announced William Russell, observing through his spyglass. “Damn! Those Russian bastards are shooting at them!”

Russell’s last remark made everybody who had a spyglass point it at the cart and Jeanne, unwittingly creating a new, dramatic focus point on the battlefield.

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Covering the wounded trooper with herself from the rain of dirt projected by the exploding shell, Jeanne then looked up anxiously at Janet and Margaret, still sitting in the cart about twenty yards away.

“ARE YOU ALRIGHT, GIRLS?”

“YES!” replied Janet after a short pause.

“MARGARET, COME HERE TO HELP ME, THEN. JANET KEEP AN EYE ON MY HORSE AND THE CART IN THE MEANTIME.”

Deciding that this battlefield was too dangerous to spend much time on each wounded they found, Jeanne did only summary first aid on his patient, then loaded him on a stretcher with Margaret’s help. Carrying the wounded to the cart, the three women then joined their efforts to load the stretcher in the back of the cart. Letting Margaret and Janet strap the stretcher in place, Jeanne ran to another man moaning with pain nearby. The sergeant from the 11th Hussars had a horrific wound to his face, with both of his eyes impaled. Clenching her teeth, Jeanne poured some water on the wound to clean it, then started applying a bandage on it while speaking soft words to calm the wounded. The man stiffened from the pain but didn’t scream as she worked on him. In the meantime, Margaret checked the other bodies around, looking for living survivors. Jeanne soon had the blinded man get to his feet and led him to the cart, where he climbed inside with Janet’s help. Another shell screamed through the air, making all of them duck. It overshot the cart, exploding forty yards away.

“Janet, keep the cart moving at all times, even when me and Margaret are treating wounded men. Don’t give those bastards an easy target.”

“Got that!’

Getting back on her horse, Jeanne then galloped to the next cluster of bodies a hundred yards further down the valley, followed by the cart. Amidst three dead horses and a wounded, wildly thrashing beast, a horse stood nearly motionless, its reins still held by its dead rider lying on the ground. Two more soldiers lay dead near him but another one seemed only shaken, his face haggard and his hands trembling. Jeanne realized that the man was suffering from a case of so-called ‘shell shock’ and knew that it had nothing to do with cowardice. Helping him to his feet, she then gently led him to the cart and made him climb aboard before running to the riderless horse and pulling the reins out of the dead man’s hand. Tying the horse to her own Pegasus, she got into the saddle and rode further down the valley, pulling the spare mount along. Encountering another riderless horse, she grabbed its reins as well, prompting a question from Margaret.

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“Why lose your time with horses, Jeanne? We are here to save men.”

“Margaret, many of our men are without horses now as they try to return to our lines. A horse may mean life for those men.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! I didn’t think about that.” said Margaret apologetically. Janet suddenly pointed down the valley.

“Over there! Two men limping together.”

“Go get them!” ordered Jeanne at once. “Then bring your patients to the medical wagon and come back here. I’m going to check those bodies over there.” As the cart rolled towards the now gesticulating soldiers, Jeanne rode to a group of six bodies 150 yards away, careful to zigzag on her way. That paid off as a shell narrowly missed her, passing only a few yards over her head before plowing into the ground some distance away. Her heart jumped in her chest when she got near the bodies: they wore the uniform of the 8th Hussars! Afraid of seeing Gordon in the lot, she jumped down from her horse while still holding the reins. Pegasus then positioned itself between her and the Russian guns to her right, activating its invisible electromagnetic shield to protect her as best it could. The first trooper that Jeanne checked was dead, along with the second one. The third, fourth and sixth were alive, though. Rinsing quickly the blood-covered face of one of the survivors, Jeanne then realized with a shock that the man was RSM O’Neil, Janet’s husband. He had a deep slash across his forehead that bled profusely and was unconscious but seemed otherwise alright. Applying quickly a bandage around O’Neil’s head, Jeanne then planted one of her small white flags in the ground besides him before going to her next patient. Somehow, the Russian gunners seemed to have lost interest in her by now, unless an officer had understood that she was merely helping the wounded and paused no threat. The noise of approaching riders then made her look up. To her relief they turned out to be a number of dispersed British soldiers from the Light Brigade who were in full retreat. They passed on both sides of her, too much in a hurry to even notice her among the large patches of drifting white smoke. A trooper on foot approached Jeanne as she was finishing to care for her last patient.

“Lady Jeanne? What are you doing here?”

It took her a few seconds to recognize the young man with a blackened and dirt-covered face.

“Pearson? Trooper John Pearson? Thank God, you’re alive!”

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Hugging him briefly, Jeanne then handed him the reins of one of the horses she had found around her patients.

“Take this horse and go! Mary is waiting for you at the medical wagon, at the end of this valley.”

“Mary is here?” said Pearson, incredulous.

“Yes!” replied Jeanne impatiently. “Now go, before you attract more fire on me!” Subjugated by her firm tone, Pearson got on the horse and rode away after a last look at her. The ambulance cart came back one minute later as more stragglers rode past Jeanne, with her last spare horse given to a lieutenant from the 4th Light Dragoons.

“SEAN!”

Janet’s scream made Jeanne turn her head in time to see her jump out of the cart and run to her husband to frantically kiss and hug him. Making sure that Margaret kept control of the cart, Jeanne got a stretcher out from the back of the cart and put it besides Sean O’Neil, then shook Janet by the shoulder.

“Come on, Janet! The quicker we load him and the two others up, the faster we will get them to safety.”

“You…you’re right.” said Janet in a sobbing voice, then helping Jeanne to delicately put the RSM on the stretcher. Both women, pushed by fear and despair, loaded the three wounded in the cart in record time. As Jeanne was getting back on her horse, Margaret shouted in alarm.

“JEANNE, ENEMY CAVALRYMEN APPROACHING!”

Looking with dread in the direction pointed at by Margaret, Jeanne saw a group of eleven Cossacks galloping towards them while holding their swords and lances high.

“RIDE BACK, NOW, AND DON’T COME BACK!” shouted Jeanne to Janet O’Neil. “I WILL COVER YOU!”

Too scared to object to her order, the two nurses turned the cart around and fled as Jeanne mounted up, drew her Colt revolver-carbine out of its saddle holster and took careful aim at the leading Cossack. Her first shot was true, dropping the Russian from his saddle at a distance of 130 yards. Seven more Cossacks fell before Jeanne holstered back her now empty carbine. The remaining three Cossacks were now less than thirty yards away and charging her with their swords high. Spurring Pegasus to a lightning charge, Jeanne drew out her own saber and let out a fierce war yell. Taken by surprise by such ferocity in a woman, the lead Cossack reacted too slowly and had his right hand chopped off as she flashed by him. The second Cossack, attacked on his left

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side, got decapitated in short order. The last Cossack saw his own sword parried away on his first pass. Braking hard his mount, he then vaulted around to face Jeanne, who was again charging him.

On Sapoune Ridge, everybody was now watching on anxiously Jeanne Smythe as she fought for her life. Fanny Duberly in particular was a ball or raw nerves as William Russell described out loud what he was seeing through his spyglass.

“…there goes a Cossack’s head! Damn! This bloody smoke is hiding everything again…Wait! I think that I see her again now…Yes, and she’s alone now. She defeated all those Cossacks, by Jove! What the… She’s now rounding up Russian horses. What does she have in mind?”

“Is she coming back now?” asked Fanny, unable to keep silent any longer. Russell, looking stunned, then lowered his spyglass and spoke in a near whisper.

“No! She went in deeper in the valley with her spare horse, towards the guns of the Don Battery.”

A few paces from them, General Bosquet and his aides were also watching the drama with their spyglasses. One aide suddenly pointed at a large group of cavalrymen going down the northern valley while skirting its left flank.

“There, mon général! General Morris and his Chasseurs d’Afrique have arrived.”

“Excellent! If they can silence those Russian guns on the Fediukhin Heights, it will give a fighting chance for some of those Englishmen to escape this trap. I see that some of the British infantry has also arrived, a bit late though.” Bosquet then looked back where Jeanne Smythe had disappeared in the smoke of the battle, sparkles in his eyes.

“Quelle femme19!” He said in a low, admiring voice.

His poor horse now dead, Gordon Smythe barely had time to join up with three other dismounted Hussars, including his Troop Sergeant-Major, James Champion, before they were beset by at least a dozen Cossacks. With the Russian guns less than fifty yards from them still firing indiscriminately in the swirling mix of Russian and British cavalrymen, the four Hussars went back to back, fending off their assailants the best they could.

19 What a woman!

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“AT LEAST WE SHOWED THESE RUSSIANS WHAT HUSSARS ARE CAPABLE OF.” shouted Champion to his captain while fencing with two Cossacks. Gordon hacked away the arm of one of his attackers before replying.

“DAMN RIGHT, SERGEANT-MAJOR! I JUST WISH THAT I COULD HAVE KISSED MY WIFE ONE LAST TIME.”

“I STILL HAVEN’T GIVEN UP ON THAT, SIR.” replied Champion, managing to wound one Cossack with a mighty slash of his sword. The Cossacks on Champion’s side suddenly turned around as a piercing yell came from their back. Using that diversion to good effect, Champion rushed forward and cut down the two Cossacks nearest to him as a lone rider appeared out of the smoke, firing a revolver repeatedly at an incredible rate and dropping five Cossacks from their saddles.

“COME ON, YOU MEN!” shouted a female voice Champion knew well enough. “GET ON THOSE RUSSIAN HORSES AT THE DOUBLE!” The four Hussars didn’t have to be told twice, quickly saddling up while Jeanne Smythe emptied her second revolver to cover them.

“NOW, LET’S GET OUT OF DODGE!” shouted Jeanne, drawing her sword after holstering her empty revolvers and letting the Hussars ride past her before urging Pegasus to a gallop. She then rode alongside Gordon, a large group of Cossacks in hot pursuit.

“You are a tough man to find, my dear husband.” she said with a grin.

“And you, my dear wife, are one crazy woman!” replied Gordon, still having a hard time believing that she had come all the way to the Russian guns to find him. You had to love a wife like this one. A pistol bullet passing uncomfortably close to Jeanne’s head then prompted a suggestion from her to Gordon.

“Tell your men to keep to the right of the valley: I’m expecting help soon from there.”

Gordon looked at her as if she was mad.

“But, the Russian guns on the Fediukhin Heights will shred us to pieces.”

“If they are still in Russian hands, my dear.” replied Jeanne mysteriously while riding hard alongside him. Gordon didn’t have time to ask her about that, as a large group of Russian Lancers galloped across their front, cutting their path to safety. Before he could swear about their bad luck, Jeanne spurred her horse, making it accelerate to a speed Gordon would not have thought possible for a normal horse and charging the Lancers ahead of the four Hussars.

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“MONTJOIE20!” shouted Jeanne at the top of her lungs, her saber held forward. Gordon, his own horse left behind by Jeanne’s horse, could only watch at first, like his three men. Jeanne deftly deflected away the point of the first Russian lance with the tip of her saber, then followed up with a slash of her sword that opened wide the throat of the Russian as she charged past him. Her blade then came down on her left side, chopping off the tip of another lance lunging for her torso. Jeanne next raised back her sword tip in time to bury it in the side of the Russian who had tried to impale her. All this was done as if it was out of long practice, while her horse kept speeding through the Russian Lancers. Gordon and his men, even though stunned by her prowess, nonetheless used the path slashed open by Jeanne to burst out of the swirling mass of Russian Lancers. They followed Jeanne’s horse as it veered towards the right side of the valley and were able to pull up to her as she slowed down her horse after a few seconds. Gordon was now eyeing with dread the hills to his right, where dozens of Russian guns were dug in. He could not understand why they had not yet started firing on his group but he could however hear heavy rifle fire coming from there. He then saw a number of Russian artillerymen run out of their hilltop positions in apparent panic. His heart jumped with joy when the Russians were followed by hundreds of French cavalrymen in hot pursuit. His whole group cheered wildly at that sight and veered to the right to meet a group of thirty Chasseurs d’Afrique, tough Algerian cavalrymen, who were led by a young French lieutenant. The lieutenant, stopping alongside Gordon, saluted him and addressed him in fair English.

“You and your men were very lucky to get out of there, Captain. Your…” The Frenchman stopped speaking and stared with disbelief at Jeanne.

“Mon Dieu! Don’t tell me that you were part of the charge, mademoiselle!”

“No, Lieutenant.” replied calmly Jeanne while grinning. “I joined my husband after the charge. I can’t afford to lose such a nice pair of tight buns, so I went after him and collected him back.”

The lieutenant grinned as Gordon’s men laughed hard at Jeanne’s answer, while Gordon turned red with embarrassment.

“Sergeant-Major Champion,” said Gordon in a warning tone, “make sure that the expression ‘tight buns’ doesn’t become a byword in B Troop.”

“Yes, sir!” shouted Champion, barely able to keep a straight face.

20 War cry of the French knights during the Hundred Years War.

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They parted with their French escort once they came to the positions held by the Heavy Brigade, with the delighted lieutenant getting a kiss from Jeanne before riding away. A captain of the 4th Dragoon Guards was at hand to greet the returning survivors of the Light Brigade. Shocked by the presence of a woman bearing arms in their group, he nonetheless saluted Gordon politely.

“Do you or any of your…men need medical attention, Captain?”

“I don’t believe so, Captain. Do you know how many men from the Light Brigade came back?”

“About half of them so far.” said cautiously the Guards officer. “Your group seems to be about the last of it, Captain. Lord Paget is waiting near an ambulance wagon behind our lines to collect and reorganize his men.”

“Thank you, Captain. We will report to him immediately.” After a last exchange of salutes, Gordon led his three men, Jeanne still in tow, towards the Hussars ambulance wagon. Less than 300 men were gathered roughly according to their regiments around it, many without a horse and more than a few sporting bloody bandages. Two carts loaded with wounded men were rolling away when Gordon approached the medical wagon, in front of which Lord Paget stood on his horse. Saluting crisply his colonel, Gordon then reported in a formal manner.

“Captain Gordon Smythe, of B Troop, reporting back with three men and Nurse Smythe, sir.”

“At ease, Captain!” replied Paget, returning the salute and eyeing Gordon’s small group. He then stared severely at Jeanne, guiding his horse closer to hers.

“Misses Smythe, may I ask what in the blazes you were doing out there?”

“Doing my nurse’s duty, sir: saving lives.” replied Jeanne politely but firmly.

“With two pistols and a sword, madam?”

“They are meant for my own defense and that of my patients, sir. In fact, I and two of my nurses were attacked by Cossacks while giving first aid to some of our wounded.”

“And you escaped them with the help of Captain Smythe, I presume?”

“Not exactly, sir. I killed the Cossacks, then went after my husband, sir.”

“You killed those Cossacks?” said Paget, clearly skeptical. “How many of them were there? Two? Three?”

“Eleven… on the first instance, sir.”

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Paget, shocked and speechless, looked at Gordon as if to get a second opinion. The latter nodded his head somberly, knowing that this story was bound to get widespread circulation.

“Sir, I didn’t see that fight, but I and my men can testify that my wife rescued us from a large group of Russian cavalrymen less than fifty yards from the Don Battery, killing over a dozen Russians in the process.”

Paget, overwhelmed and at a loss about how to handle this, stammered a reply with difficulty.

“Uh, well…It will be all, Nurse Smythe. You may return to your duties.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Returning her salute, Paget let her go before looking at Gordon.

“Captain, do a quick roster of your men. You may want to contact Doctor Farrell for this, as he has the list of wounded men sent back to camp. Dismissed!”

“Sir!”

As Gordon rode towards the gathered survivors of the 8th Hussars, he turned his head to look at James Champion.

“Sergeant-Major, go to the medical wagon and inquire about our wounded there. Take your time if you feel you need to.”

“Thank you, sir.” replied Champion, a lump in his throat. Trotting to the big wagon and dismounting, he tied his horse to one wheel before entering the rear tent. He found Jeanne Smythe and Sarah hugging each other in the first section. Sarah’s eyes went wide at his sight.

“JAMES! THANK GOD YOU’RE SAFE!”

Throwing herself in his arms, Sarah kissed him frantically for long seconds, with Jeanne going into the second tent section and leaving them alone. The couple finally parted with tears in their eyes.

“I was so scared for you, James.”

“Oh, I was scared enough myself, Sarah. Me, the captain and two more men were about to be done in by a bunch of Cossacks when Lady Jeanne showed up just at the right time. She is one mean pistol shooter, I tell you.” That got him a surprised look from his wife.

“But she only told me that she met you and the others on the battlefield.”

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James could only nod in respect at that: Jeanne Smythe may be incredibly brave but she was no braggart about it, something to be admired.

“Believe me, Sarah. If anybody deserves a medal for this battle, she should be first in line to get one. Now, if you will excuse me, dear, I’m going to see Doctor Farrell to get the list of our wounded.”

“Let me hug you a while more first, James.” said Sarah softly. James welcomed her into his arms again, caressing her hair and back to their mutual contentment.

Gordon had finished his roster of B Troop by the time James Champion returned from the medical wagon and handed him a list on a sheet of paper. Gordon read it with a mix of sadness and relief: it could have been a lot worse. Out of the 41 men of B Troop who had followed him in the charge, thirteen were missing and presumed dead or prisoner, while 21 men had been wounded and were on their way back to the Hussars field hospital. From what he could see, the rest of the brigade had suffered at least as severely if not more than his troop. Lining his seven remaining men, two of which had to ride with other troopers, he then led them at a trot back to camp. He would later learn that, out of the 632 men of the brigade who had charged today, 110 had been killed, 57 had been taken prisoner and 196 had been wounded, with many of the later having to suffer amputations. Also, well over half of the horses of the brigade had died. The Light Brigade was now ineffective as a military formation.

21:14 (Constantinople Time)

8th Hussars field hospital

Kadikoi, Crimea

Hesitating for a short moment, William Howard Russell finally decided himself and knocked on the pole near the partition that marked Jeanne Smythe’s room. Her response was immediate.

“Come in!”

Pushing open the curtain door, Russell saw Jeanne Smythe sitting at the small table set in one corner of her tiny cubicle. She wore a conventional burgundy and white dress and had obviously cleaned herself up after her action-packed day in the field. Russell then noticed the two revolvers on the table, disassembled for cleaning.

“May I speak with you for a moment, Jeanne?”

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“Please, have a seat, William.”

“Thank you.”

Taking place on the edge of the bed, a real one and not one of those camp cots he found so uncomfortable, Russell took out a notepad and a pencil and smiled to Jeanne.

“Could I ask you a few questions about today, if you don’t mind, Jeanne?”

“Fire away.” she replied while resuming her weapons cleaning job.

“First of, I would like to say that I was able to observe you in action today and was much impressed by your bravery.”

Somehow his compliment only seemed to embarrass her.

“William, please understand that I did what I did to save lives. Also, I didn’t do any more than what all the men of the Light Brigade did today.”

“But, Jeanne, those men were ordered to charge, while you freely chose to go in.”

“Remember that two other women followed me in.” she replied while shaking an index. “They were unarmed while I had my revolvers, sword and carbine. It is them you should praise, not me. They are Margaret Ward and Janet O’Neil, both wives of men of the 8th Hussars.”

Russell smiled and nodded in approval while scribbling those names down in his notepad.

“A generous thought, Jeanne. Those two women will certainly be mentioned in my article about this battle. Now, would you mind describing in detail what you did today?”

Jeanne obliged with good grace, speaking for over ten minutes and with Russell asking a number of questions to clarify some points. The journalist had sparkles in his eyes as Jeanne finished telling her story. It involved courage, compassion, romance and dedication to one’s husband, a mix that was sure to inflame the enthusiasm of his readers in London.

“Jeanne, as a last point, could you tell me where and how you learned all those military and fighting skills?”

“I’m afraid not, William.” she answered, politely but firmly. “There are already too many wild rumors about me around the camp.”

“But this would be your chance to quash those rumors with the truth, Jeanne.” Jeanne then gave him a sober look, speaking very deliberately.

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“Believe me, William: the truth would never be believed by anyone here or in London. I will ask you not to emphasize this aspect of me in your article, William. My charity work in Europe requires me to cross borders many times every year and I wouldn’t want to see myself turned back at a border post because of some wild rumor about me being a government spy.”

“So, you do realize that you being a possible spy is the rumor deemed most plausible by many to explain your military prowess?”

Jeanne sighed audibly, looking discouraged for a moment.

“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t…” she said quietly before staring back at the journalist. “William, I have been doing my best for years to do some good around me and to relieve as much as I can the misery and suffering in this sad world. If I would have been a man, few would notice my actions, but I am what I am. One way you can help me continue doing my charity work is by avoiding to mention those wild rumors about me in your articles. Hopefully, those rumors will then stay here, in Crimea.”

“That could be an overoptimistic wish, Jeanne.” cautioned Russell, making her nod.

“I know! Believe me, I know.”

Russell was silent for a moment while eyeing the formidable young woman facing him. The soldiers of the Light Brigade who had met her on the battlefield were positively in awe of her and had told him plenty about her actions of today. Russell then made his mind and smiled to Jeanne.

“Alright, Jeanne, I will keep mum about those rumors. I however can’t guarantee that the few other reporters or even some tourists presently in Crimea will not spread eventually those rumors all the way to London.”

“Thanks, William. I really appreciate this. If you will now excuse me, I wish to clean my revolvers, so that I can go to bed. Today was a tough day.”

“That I can believe, Jeanne. Have a good evening.” said Russell while starting to open the curtain to leave.

“Good evening to you as well.” replied Jeanne. Once the reporter was gone, she returned her attention to her cleaning work but couldn’t take her worries completely out of her mind. Too much talking about her was bound to eventually become bad news for her charity work but she could hardly change the fact that she was an athletic, six foot-tall young woman with abilities well beyond the accepted norm for this century.

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More knocks on the pole interrupted her again nine minutes later. This time it was Gordon, looking unsure of himself. After accepting the kiss from Jeanne, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked hesitantly at her.

“Jeanne, I have to ask you something. Believe me when I say that I love you more than anybody else in the world but what I saw of you today was positively incredible. Tell me, in complete truth: who are you really? You not only fought better than most soldiers I know, you also predicted with complete accuracy what happened today, and this a few months ago, when you were still amnesiac.” Nancy had dreaded this moment for a few weeks already but still wasn’t sure how to face it. It reminded her too much of a similar episode when she had revealed her secret identity to D’Artagnan in order not to lose him. The Time Patrol had chosen to overlook that incident but it probably wouldn’t let a second similar thing pass without severe consequences for her. Her genuine love for Gordon only made her choice more painful.

“Gordon, when we married, we vowed to each other to stay together until death do us part, for the better and for the worse. We already lived together some of the better moments of life and we are presently living through some of the worst, thanks to this war. I am only asking you to have confidence in me and not ask me further about this.” The look of doubt and suspicion that appeared then on Gordon’s face truly hurt her.

“Jeanne, as your husband, I would be in my right to ask you to show confidence in me and to tell me the truth, unless you want this marriage to be a lie.” Nancy couldn’t help tears then come out and she had to hide her face with her hands, sobs following the tears quickly. A voice only she could hear then rang inside her brain, coming via her implanted radio. It was the voice of Farah Tolkonen.

“Nancy, this is Farah. Ingrid heard your exchange and initiated a Code Red procedure, then went to warn me. Make Gordon promise silence, then tell him the minimum, basically that you are from the future and that you are stranded in this time period.”

“Thanks, Farah.” Thought Nancy, relieved by this show of confidence. Wiping away her tears, she looked back sullenly at Gordon, who was still waiting for her answer.

“Gordon, you will first have to promise me that you will never repeat to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

After a short hesitation, Gordon nodded his head.

“You have my solemn word, Jeanne.”

“Thank you, Gordon. First off, I have not one but two secrets.”

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“Two secrets?” said Gordon, stiffening.

“Yes! The first one is probably the biggest: I am from the future.” Despite having expected about anything, Gordon still paled at those words.

“The…the future? How far in the future?”

“I was born in 1982. I was a soldier. Hell, I am still a soldier!”

“Tell me more, Jeanne.” said weakly Gordon, whose head was nearly spinning now. Nancy got up from her chair and sat beside him on the bed, passing an arm around his shoulders before speaking.

“I have been training to be a soldier nearly from childhood, Gordon, apart from receiving an extensive education. It was mostly my own choice but my older sister, who was in the army, did a lot to attract me to a military career. I worked for an international force that was dedicated to protecting the peace around the World and to help the victims of disasters. Then, I was selected for a special task: to try the prototype of a time travel machine.”

“Why you? You must have been still quite young then.”

“I was sixteen then, Gordon. The reason I was selected had a lot to do with my second secret. You served in India, so I presume that you know about the Hindu concept of reincarnation, right?”

“I do. According to the Hindus, the spirit leaves the body at death and goes on to live in another living being. The more meritorious your previous life had been, the higher the form of next life you got to live.”

“Correct. The Hindus are however a bit off, as a human spirit will go inhabit only a human body. People are not supposed to remember their past incarnations and very few even claim to be able to. Well, I am the notable exception, Gordon: I can remember all of my past incarnations, my past lives, languages, skills and experiences. That unique talent got me selected to travel to the past.”

Gordon was quite pale by now, with his mind in utter turmoil. He had come to Jeanne’s room to ask for the truth from her, but he was starting to realize that he had not been ready for the whole truth. Her warmth, touch and smell however reminded him at the same time that he had married this beautiful young woman out of true love for her, a love that she had more than returned up to now. Even if she was from the future, something that would explain many things, he would still keep loving her.

“How far in the past do those souvenirs go, Jeanne? Your name is really Jeanne, right?”

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“It is now, Gordon. When I tested for the first time that time machine it failed catastrophically and sank off the coast of the Guadeloupe on its first trip, after bringing me back in time by over a hundred years. I was able to swim ashore but am since then stranded in this century. I assumed the name of Jeanne de Brissac in order to blend in, got married to Pierre D’Orléans and eventually ended up what I am today. To answer your first question, I remember lives extending back 9,000 years in history.”

“Nine thousand years?” exclaimed a bit too loudly Gordon, making Nancy signal him to lower his voice.

“Not so loud! Others could hear. Yes, 9,000 years. That is why I can speak so many languages and ride and fight so well. I was even one of the fabled Amazons of Greek legends over 2,500 years ago.”

A smile then came for the first time on Gordon’s face as he contemplated that fact.

“I am married to an Amazon…I have to say that I like that notion.”

“I knew that you would, Gordon.” said Nancy, smiling, before kissing him. She then caressed his cheeks while staring directly into his eyes. “Gordon, I am lost in time, with no way for me to go back to my time and none either for the ones who built the first time machine to find me, as it went badly off course in both time and space before crashing in the sea. For better or for worse, I am now Jeanne Smythe-d’Orléans, married to a gallant and dashing British cavalry officer, and will stay so until death do us part.”

Those last words finished softening Gordon, who then exchanged a long kiss with Jeanne. Letting herself fall on her back on the bed, Jeanne then invited Gordon on top of her. He had his hand under her skirt as he spoke softly to her between kisses.

“Near the Don Battery, as we were charging through those Russian Lancers, you shouted something in French.”

“Montjoie?”

“That’s it. What did it mean?”

“’Montjoie’ was the war cry of the French knights during the Hundred Years War.”

“You were a French knight then?”

“Not exactly.” said Jeanne, a malicious smile appearing on her lips. “I was Joan of Arc.”

10:06 (Crimea Time)

Sunday, October 29, 1854

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8th Hussars field hospital

Kadikoi, Crimea

Asking to one of the regimental wives working at the field hospital where he could find Jeanne, Gordon was directed to the operating block, where he found her after looking into two successive operating rooms. He was stunned to see through one of the windows of the third operating room that Jeanne was actually performing surgery under the careful supervision of Doctor Thomas Farrell. Knowing that non-medical personnel intruding during an operation was a big no-no with both Jeanne and Doctor Farrell, Gordon decided to watch and wait outside the operating room. Four minutes later, the patient was taken out of the operating room on one of the 200 rolling gurneys Jeanne had brought by ship, while the surgical team went to change and wash their hands. Gordon was finally able to meet Jeanne when she walked out of the post-operating room, her surgical garb already removed. They kissed each other before Gordon spoke, his expression serious.

“I have something to announce to you: Lord Paget is leaving Crimea today, heading for England.”

He saw Jeanne’s face harden at that piece of news.

“Let me guess: Paget had quote ‘urgent private affairs’ unquote to take care of at home and he turned in his commission, which he had purchased in the first place.”

“Correct on all points, Jeanne.” agreed Gordon, who then stared straight into her eyes. “You do know well the history of this war. Are you sure that you don’t want to tell me more about it?”

She shook her head slowly while keeping eye contact with him.

“I’m sorry, Gordon. The less you know, the less chances there are that history could be affected or rewritten. In fact, my sole presence here in Crimea probably caused a number of minor, insignificant changes to history. Changing the given outcome of a battle would be an altogether much more damaging thing. Again, I’m sorry but I won’t tell you or anyone else more on this subject.”

Gordon was silent for a moment, then kissed her on the lips.

“I understand. Please forget that I asked.”

In the next few days, no less than 38 officers of the Light Brigade, including Captains Fields and McGregor of the 8th Hussars, left Crimea for England under the

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pretext of ‘urgent private affairs’ to escape the increasingly unpleasant climate and harsh living conditions. All of them had purchased their commissions instead of earning them and now turned them in as the going got rough. The enlisted men had no choice but to stay and endure. This was the cause of much bitterness for Gordon Smythe, who rightly felt betrayed by his fellow officers. On his part, William Howard Russell turned this scandal into one of his most strident journalistic attacks yet on the military aristocracy and its system of privileges and built-in incompetence.

06:02 (Constantinople Time)

Sunday, November 5, 1854

British Army observation camp

Home Ridge Heights, South of Sebastopol

Private Henry Williams, of the 41st Rifle Regiment, was so tired from his 24 hours of trench duty he had returned from late last night that he woke up only after the fourth or fifth gun discharge. Looking groggily around the dark tent, he did not have time to get out from under his blanket before a cannonball flew through the tent and ripped away both of his legs.

On the muddy road leading to the observation camp, the noise of the now raging battle made Janet O’Neil stop her ambulance cart, while Margaret Ward, sitting inside the cart, stuck her head out. As for Jeanne Smythe, she stopped her horse and listened intently to the noises of the battle. Since the first day of November, Jeanne had instituted a daily routine of visiting the frontline trenches held by the British infantry, this with the approval of the commander of the 2nd Division and with the goals of helping troop morale and providing on the spot medical aid. The Russians seemed to have accepted their cart for what it was by now, as no Russian guns had shot at them while they visited the trenches, even though they had to approach in plain sight of the enemy.

“JANET,” shouted urgently Jeanne, “HEAD TOWARDS THE HOME RIDGE CAMP AS FAST AS YOU CAN.”

Janet looked at the thick fog surrounding them, feeling unsure about this.

“But, in this fog, we are liable to lose our way and end up behind enemy lines.”

“Then follow me! Lots of our men need our help right now.”

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Without further objections, Janet urged her horse forward, following Jeanne on her horse. Margaret, still sitting in the back of the cart, grabbed one of their two rifled muskets and handed it to Janet, then got hold of the second one for herself.

The drive through the fog and confusing terrain, with the noises of the battle progressively surrounding them, was nerve-wracking for Janet and Margaret. They could see that Jeanne herself was tense and nervous: she may have been incredibly brave but she was sensible enough to acknowledge fear like anyone else. They finally reached the camp of the 2nd Division to find it totally wrecked, with bodies strewn all around the place. In the fog they could see groups of soldiers as mere silhouettes running around, shouting and fighting each other.

“This place is like a three-ring circus.” exclaimed Janet O’Neil over the din of the battle, joking to try hiding her fear. Jeanne clenched her teeth at that.

“Yes, but a damn bloody circus. I’m going on foot from here. Keep following with the cart.”

With Jeanne guiding her with hand signals while holding the reins of her horse, Janet drove the cart slowly through the wrecked camp. A whistling bullet made her wince as it passed besides her head.

“Maggie, are you alright?”

“Apart from staining my underwear, yes.” replied her friend in a shaky voice.

“Then we are in the same boat.”

“Make it three!” said Jeanne from a few yards in front of them. Jeanne suddenly signaled Janet to stop. The latter immediately understood why at the sight of an incredible scene of carnage now visible through the fog. A Russian shell had exploded in the midst of a packed group of British soldiers, ripping many of them apart and peppering the rest with deadly fragments. Body parts were strewn all over the place and at least a dozen soldiers were either moaning or screaming in pain. Without waiting for Jeanne’s order, Margaret jumped down from the cart, a bag full of bandages in one hand and her rifle slung across her back. Applying the cart’s handbrake, Janet jumped down as well and took a stretcher out of the back of the cart. Both women quickly joined Jeanne at the side of a sergeant whose left leg was mangled up beyond repair. Jeanne was already applying a garrote just above the shattered mass of flesh and bones.

“Janet, finish fixing this garrote here!” ordered Jeanne. “Margaret, take care of that corporal over there!”

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She then went to an infantry captain whose right shoulder and left leg were covered with blood. The man was still conscious and was clenching his teeth in order not to scream with pain. He looked up with incredulity at Jeanne as she knelt besides him.

“Madam, you shouldn’t be here. It is way too dangerous around here right now.”

“Bunk!” replied Jeanne while taking out her big hunting knife to cut open his bloody uniform. “We go where the wounded are, mister.” A shell then exploded nearby, showering them with mud and sending shrapnel flying around them. Jeanne covered the captain with her body to avoid dirt contaminating further his wounds. The man then grabbed the front of her coat, speaking with as much authority as he could.

“Ladies, get out of here now, that’s an order!”

“And who is doing the ordering, sir?” she replied while continuing to give first aid.

“Captain Edward Scot, of B Company, 49th Rifle Regiment. Now, go!” Jeanne then stared straight into the officer’s eyes.

“Captain, you know the old saying about army wives? They wear one rank higher than that of their husbands. Well, I am Lady Jeanne Smythe, wife of Captain Gordon Smythe of the 8th Hussars. I believe that I thus outrank you, sir. Now shut up and keep still.”

The officer then smiled at her, his voice softening.

“You and your nurses are real angels, Lady Jeanne.”

“Hmm, some would rather call me a bitch, Captain.”

“They can go to Hell!”

“My thought, exactly.”

Edward Scot couldn’t help admire her apparent calm as she quickly and efficiently treated him. Her two nurses also worked diligently under her supervision, preparing and loading up two wounded soldiers in their cart. They were coming back to take Scot as well when he stopped them with an imperative gesture.

“No! Take care of my other men first. I can wait.”

Jeanne looked at him for a moment, then grinned and nodded her head.

“At last: a real officer for a change. Alright, girls, let’s go see this private over there.”

Working for a few minutes on the private while shells and bullets kept flying around, the three women then loaded him on a stretcher and brought him to the cart. After helping sliding and securing the stretcher inside the cart, Jeanne was returning at a run towards

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Scot when a shell exploded nearby, sending hot fragments all over the place. The cart’s horse then pushed a heart-wrenching squeal and fell down like a rock on its belly, dead. Jeanne stared at the poor beast, horror and sadness on her face.

“YASMINA, NOO!”

Janet and Margaret, already in the cart and ready to leave with their wounded, also looked with horror at their dead horse.

“JEANNE, WHAT DO WE DO NOW?”

Jeanne took only a second to recover her wits and grabbed the reins of her personal horse, pulling it towards the cart.

“UNHOOK YASMINA, QUICK! WE WILL THEN PUT PEGASUS IN HER PLACE.”

Working frantically, the three women had the dead horse replaced by Pegasus and harnessed in minutes. Before the cart left, Jeanne went to Pegasus and patted its head while speaking softly in its left ear.

“Pegasus, I am counting on you to bring back the cart to the hospital at the best speed.”

She then kissed its head and slapped its neck, prompting the horse into launching into full gallop, the cart bumping and rolling wildly behind it. Edward Scot looked at her with wonderment when Jeanne returned to his side.

“Why did you stay?”

That got him a grim look from Jeanne.

“Because your other wounded men will bleed to death if not treated immediately. Now keep quiet and save your strength.”

As she got busy around him, Scot tried to gauge which way the battle around them was going. With the fog still thick and with gunpowder smoke further cutting down visibility, the fighting was as confused and chaotic as ever. Nearby shouts in Russian suddenly made both him and Jeanne tense up and look eastward. A group of about twenty soldiers in gray overcoats and caps then appeared through the fog, less than thirty yards away. Scot watched them with rage and horror as they methodically bayoneted any British soldier that still moved as they advanced towards him. A nearby pistol shot then made him turn his head in time to see Jeanne Smythe methodically empty one of her revolvers on the Russians. She switched to her second revolver as the surviving Russians either charged her with bayonets held forward or fired their old fashioned muskets at her. He saw her left leg buckle when a musket ball hit her in the upper leg,

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making her scream with pain. She however clenched her teeth and kept firing, dropping five more Russians before holstering back her now empty revolver and drawing her sword and her hunting knife. Six Russian infantrymen ganged up on her but they went at it in a disorderly manner, getting in each other’s way. As Scot drew his own pistol with difficulty, he watched her cut down three Russians before a bayonet went through her left arm. Screaming with pain, she nonetheless ran through the Russian who had impaled her arm, while parrying another bayonet with her knife. Scot then shot one of the two last Russians with his pistol, while a wounded corporal managed to raise his rifle and kill the last Russian. With a supreme effort, Jeanne detached the bayonet pinning her left arm to its musket, then crawled to Scot, her face reflecting excruciating pain.

“Sorry…about the interruption…Captain.” she said haltingly. She then put down her sword and drew again one of her revolvers, putting it on Scot’s belly before opening a small leather pouch on her leather equipment vest. Taking out of it a small object, she unwrapped the waxed paper around it, revealing a spare revolver cylinder, fully loaded. With agony on her face, she replaced the empty cylinder of her revolver with the full one, then pocketed back the empty one. Her next move was to take a bandage out of another pouch and use it as a garrote on her wounded leg. She then poured in succession water and alcohol on her leg and arm wounds while clenching her teeth. She did not however remove the bayonet still stuck in her left arm. Taking hold of her loaded revolver, she smiled weakly at Scot.

“Who do you think will reach us first now, Captain? The Russians, the British or the French? I’m rich, so I’m not scared of placing a bet. What do you say?”

“I’ll bet on the British.” he replied, conquered by her courage.

“And I go for the French.”

As she took her breath, two bullets zipped by them. Raising her revolver with evident effort, she shot in succession four approaching Russian soldiers, then grinned at Scot.

“It seems that we both lost, Captain.”

He couldn’t help raise his left hand and caress her long, silky black hair. She stared at him but didn’t stop him. More soldiers appeared then, this time from the West. They wore baggy red trousers and were led by a general on horseback shouting in a language Scot didn’t recognize. Jeanne’s face immediately reflected joy and she shouted in the same language, drawing enthusiastic shouts from the soldiers now sprinting past them. She then looked back at Scot, grinning.

“French Zouaves, led by General Bosquet in person. We’re saved!”

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Without thinking, Scot then impulsively kissed her on the mouth. The slap he expected never came.

17:08 (Crimea Time)

8th Hussars field hospital

Kadikoi, Crimea

One look at the expression on Captain Gordon Smythe’s face, charging towards the female patients ward, quickly convinced Margaret Ward to get out of his way. However, the Hussars officer did stop briefly to ask her one question.

“How is she, Maggie?”

“Doctor Farrell says that she will be alright, Captain. They took out the musket ball from her left leg and the bayonet didn’t touch the bone or nerves of her left arm. She got out of surgery two hours ago and is resting. You can see her for a short while but try not to tire her.”

“I will be careful.” said Gordon softly. He then smiled tenderly to the nurse. “By the way, what you and Misses O’Neil did with Jeanne this morning was admirable. Well done, Maggie!”

“I…thank you, Captain.” replied the brunette, blushing. She then walked away, a tray with bandages and scissors in her hands. Now alone in the corridor, Gordon knocked lightly on the framed entrance of the female patients ward, waiting for Jeanne’s reply before entering. Jeanne was conscious but looked groggy as she lay half sitting in one the eight beds of the ward. Her bandaged left arm was in a sling but he couldn’t see her left leg with the blanket and linen sheet covering her lower body. Taking a chair from one corner of the ward, Gordon put it next to her bed and sat on it, looking tenderly at his wife.

“You can’t imagine how proud I am of you, Jeanne. What you did was heroic.”

“But I only defended myself, Gordon.” she protested weakly. He shook his head vehemently then.

“You and your two nurses decided to go in on your own, while the battle was at its worst. Some would call that foolhardy but in truth the quick care you provided saved at least five men. That does not count the wounded who would have been bayoneted by the Russians you killed. Captain Scot, whose men you cared for and protected, has officially petitioned Lord Raglan through his commanding general so that you and your

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two nurses be decorated for your acts. The French high command is also said to be quite fond of you.”

“The French high command? Why?”

“Come on, Jeanne! You are a French woman after all, and one that I am told is quite famous in France already. Mister Russell spoke to a French journalist this afternoon and learned that the French Army public affairs officials intend to turn you into a national heroine.”

That made Jeanne roll her eyes.

“God! As if I needed that!”

Her expression then changed and she took hold of his left hand while smiling.

“Well, I should tell you one piece of news myself: I believe that I’m pregnant.”

“Really?” said Gordon, suddenly excited. “Are you sure?”

“Not completely, but I should know for sure in two weeks. If I miss my menstruations again…”

“But that’s fantastic!” said Gordon before kissing her passionately. Sitting back down, he then wiggled an index at her. “You will have to promise me to take it easy from now on, Jeanne: you shouldn’t put our baby at risk.”

She sighed while looking at her left arm.

“Do I really have a choice right now?”

Three days later, General Bosquet in person put around Jeanne’s neck the ribbon of the French medal of Commander of the Legion of Honor, for repeated acts of bravery on the battlefield which had brought great honor to France. Gordon shamelessly cried tears of pride as Jeanne was congratulated in her hospital bed by the senior officers present.

18:39 (Crimea Time)

Monday, December 25, 1854

8th Hussars field hospital

Kadikoi, Crimea

“Are you sure that you are ready to go out like this, Jeanne?”

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Jeanne smiled to Janet O’Neil as she climbed into the front of the ambulance cart. Janet noticed then how slow and deliberate Jeanne’s movements were still compared to normal.

“Janet, I have been inactive for too long already. I may not be up to running around yet but I certainly can ride a cart and deliver hot soup to the forward troops on Christmas Day. Let me just sit in the back in order to watch our pot of soup and then we will be able to drive to the forward trenches.”

Jeanne, wearing like Janet thick woolen winter clothes to protect herself from the bitter cold and cutting wind of Crimea, sat inside the cart, protected partly from the wind by the canvas top. With her back to the right side of the cart, she sat on one of the two platforms meant to hold a stretcher. Next to her in the back of the cart was a large, deep square steel basin with wooden handles. Inside that basin sat a large stainless steel pot full of hot chicken broth soup, its top closed by a steel lid held in place by clamps. Hot coals from one of the hospital stoves had just been shoveled inside the basin to surround the base of the pot and keep it hot for a few hours. The coals also helped warm up the inside of the cart, making Jeanne feel guilty about leaving Janet to freeze in the driver’s seat. Someone however had to watch the pot and prevent it from tipping and spilling its precious content if they struck a really nasty rut.

“You may start now, Janet!”

“YAAH, PEGASUS!” shouted Janet as a reply, urging their horse forward. Sometimes that horse spooked Janet, as when it had pulled the cart all the way to the hospital in thick fog without guidance on the day when Jeanne had been wounded. It however was a very intelligent and strong beast and had proved its weight’s worth in gold on many thankless jobs which would have killed lesser horses in the harsh local climate. Pegasus dutifully started trotting forward, taking the snow-covered dirt road leading to the heights where the British trench works were facing the besieged city of Sebastopol.

Going at the merry, tireless trot typical of Pegasus, the cart arrived in half an hour on Home Ridge Height, where the British Army observation camp was, crossing it and going north on the trail leading to the forward trenches. Jeanne stuck her head out of the canvas cover then and looked at Janet, whose face had turned red from the cold wind.

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“Janet, let me take the reins for a while and come warm yourself inside. No sense in waiting until you are frozen stiff.”

“Can’t say that I find your idea stupid, Jeanne.” replied Janet, who then thankfully switched places with Jeanne. She sighed with relief as she took her mitts off and warmed her hands and face over the hot coals in the basin.

“God, how could our officers force our men to spend 24 straight hours at a time sitting in snow-covered trenches, with no shelters or hot food?”

“Easy!” replied Jeanne from the driver’s bench. “Take an uncaring, incompetent aristocrat, let him stay in a warm tent or hut with hot tea and food and give him brave men from lower social classes to command from afar.”

Janet could only reflect bitterly on this. Horrible cases of frostbites among frontline soldiers were getting more and more numerous, with many men freezing to death in the trenches while wearing the tattered remains of the same uniforms in which they had landed in the Fall in Crimea. A quantity of winter clothes had been received in Balaklava harbor but were still lying at quayside in the snow and mud, awaiting a releasing signature from Commissary General Filder, who seemed in no hurry to do so. Jeanne had stated not long ago that she was going to kill Filder one fine day and Janet, like many in the British Army, couldn’t wait to see that day arrive.

A shouted challenge from a British sentry ten minutes later told Janet that they were now at the forward trenches. Jeanne answered calmly the soldier, whose silhouette was barely visible ahead in the dark and falling snow.

“Lady Jeanne Smythe, 8th Hussars ambulance. We are bringing hot soup to the men in the trenches.”

“Hot soup? Thank God for bringing you here, madam!”

“Do you have a cup or mess tin with you, soldier?”

“Uh, no.” said sheepishly the man, who had approached the front of the cart and now stood less than two feet from it. Jeanne nodded her head in understanding: most British infantry soldiers in Crimea now barely had any personal kit left with them, apart from having no spare uniforms to wear.

“Don’t worry: we brought some spare cups with us. Janet, pass me a cup full of soup.”

A cup of steaming broth soon was passed to her by Janet, with Jeanne then handing over the cup to the freezing soldier, who smelled with obvious content the rich soup

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while warming his hands on the cup. A first sip of the soup brought a big smile on the face of the young soldier, who could not be older than 22.

“May God bless you, madam.”

“The pleasure is ours, Private. Keep the cup. Merry Christmas!” Jeanne then urged Pegasus forward and had the cart advance another hundred yards until the trench lines themselves made any more advance impossible. She could now see dozens of silhouettes sitting or walking back and forth in the wide trench. Passing her head inside the canvas-covered back, she spoke quickly to Janet, still sitting besides the pot of soup.

“I am going to pass the word to the soldiers in the trenches to come to the cart for some soup. Give me a full cup with cover so that I can go give it to the forward sentry.”

“But you’re not going alone like this in the no-man’s-land, are you?”

“Do you have two revolvers and a sword with you, Janet?”

“Uh, no.”

“Then pass me a full cup.”

Shaking her head at Jeanne’s obstinacy, Janet filled a cup and gave it to her after putting a close fitting lid on it.

“Please be careful, Jeanne.”

“I always am, Janet.”

Jeanne then stepped down from the cart, careful not to spill the cup of soup in her hands. Going down into the trench, she went to the nearest group of British soldiers, who were shivering while sitting tightly together in order to try to keep warm.

“Is there an officer or a senior NCO around?”

One man who had been pacing around some fifteen yards away then answered her while walking towards her. His tone was severe.

“I’m Warrant Belford, of the 31st Rifles. What are you doing here in the advanced trenches, madam?”

“Delivering hot soup, Warrant. I’m Lady Jeanne Smythe, from the 8th Hussars field ambulance. My cart is parked over there, with one nurse ready to distribute cups of hot soup. We also have spare cups for the men who have no tins or mugs with them. Could you arrange for your men to take turns to go get their soup?” The warrant’s expression then softened up considerably. Jeanne’s name was by now widely respected around the British Army Corps in Crimea.

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“In that case, I will direct my men to your cart with pleasure. Just give me a minute to pass the word around.”

The warrant was true to his word, making half of his men line up in a disciplined manner at the cart to get their soup. As soon as those men had returned with full cups, the other half was sent to the cart. One soldier also went out of the trench to go replace temporarily the lonely soldier on forward watch who stood guard between the trench and the nearby Russian Redan Bastion. Only when the forward sentry had showed up and gotten his soup did Warrant Belford go himself for some soup, something that earned him a kiss on the cheek from Jeanne.

“Bless you, Warrant, for caring for your men.”

“And bless you, madam, for your courage and generosity.” replied the moved NCO. While he was gone to the cart, Jeanne took a few minutes to go to each soldier present and ask him how his feet and hands felt, checking for possible cases of frostbites. One soldier who complained of not feeling his feet anymore was brought to the cart for further examination, with the permission of Warrant Belford. Making the man climb in the back of the cart, Jeanne was alarmed at the way the man stepped inside, his moves stiff and clumsy. While Jeanne stood just outside of the cart and watched, Janet had the man remove his boots. That was when both women realized that the man’s boots were full of holes, like his rotting wool socks.

“My God!” exclaimed Janet, horrified and scandalized. “How could they send you to do guard duty with such poor boots?”

“There are no spare boots available, madam.” explained in a disillusioned tone the soldier. Shaking her head angrily, Jeanne got inside as well and inspected the man’s feet, finding them frigid and insensitive to touch.

“A couple more hours out there and you would have lost both feet, Corporal. I’m going to get your warrant.”

Jeanne was back with Warrant Belford within minutes, letting then the NCO see his man’s feet for himself. The warrant shook his head sadly on feeling the soldier’s feet.

“I’m afraid that you are right, madam. What can you do for him?”

“I will bring him to the 8th Hussars hospital for treatment. My doctor will notify your regimental surgeon tomorrow. With good care, your man could probably return to duty in a few days.”

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“That sounds correct to me, madam.” said Belford before looking at his man. “Behave while at the hospital, Corporal Austin, and don’t harass the nurses there.”

“Me, Warrant? Harass all those pretty nurses?”

“Exactly!” replied Belford as both Janet and Jeanne giggled at the exchange. Once the warrant was gone, Janet wrapped a warm blanket around the corporal’s feet, legs and torso while Jeanne got back at the reins of the cart. They then continued their tour of the advance trench, distributing their soup until they ran out of it and also collecting in the process three more men suffering from frostbites. Two other men that Jeanne saw in the trench along their way were already frozen to death and beyond help by the time she got to them.

12:11 (Crimea Time)

Tuesday, December 26, 1854

Officers’ Mess, British Army field headquarters

Balaklava, Crimea

Commissary General Filder was sitting at a table of the Officers’ Mess dining room, established in a building close to the harbor in Balaklava, and enjoying his lunch of roast chicken and boiled potatoes. Concentrated on eating a chicken leg and having a rather poor hearing because of his age, he didn’t notice the fact that the other patrons in the dining room had suddenly gone quiet and were all looking towards the entrance of the dining room. A pair of worn and battered army boots slamming in front of him on the table returned Filder to reality, making his heart jump from the fright. A pair of thick sheepskin boots were then slammed on the table next to the tattered summer boots as Filder recognized with dread the tall woman now facing him with murder in her eyes: it was none other than Lady Jeanne Smythe, who lost no time in addressing him in a voice full of anger and contempt, speaking loudly enough for all those present in the mess to hear her.

“Mister Filder, I want you to take a good look at this pair of summer boots in front of you. I took them off a British soldier who nearly lost both of his feet to frostbites last night while standing guard in the advance trench facing Sebastopol. You will notice that both boots are sporting holes in their soles, apart from having one sole barely holding on by a few stitches. Yet, that soldier could not get any spare boots from the bunch of incompetents at your commissariat.”

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“Now wait a minute, madam!” started to object Filder while getting up from his chair. Jeanne Smythe at once pushed him back down on his chair and raised her voice to a near shout.

“YOU LISTEN, MISTER! YOU SEE THOSE NICE, WARM SHEEPSKIN BOOTS? I TOOK THEM FROM A SHIPMENT OF A FEW THOUSANDS SIMILAR WINTER BOOTS THAT HAVE BEEN ROTTING IN THE MUD AND SNOW AT QUAYSIDE HERE IN BALAKLAVA FOR OVER A MONTH NOW. IT SEEMS THAT YOU HAVE BEEN TOO BUSY BARFING OUT ON HOT FOOD TO FIND EVEN A MINUTE TO SIGN FOR THE RELEASE AND DISTRIBUTION OF THOSE BOOTS AND OTHER WINTER GEAR, GEAR THAT COULD HAVE SAVED THE LIVES OF HUNDREDS OF OUR SOLDIERS WHO DIED OF COLD IN THE TRENCHES! YOU WANT TO KNOW HOW MANY FEET WE HAD TO AMPUTATE AT THE HUSSARS HOSPITAL JUST FOR THE LAST WEEK? TRY SEVENTEEN, MISTER!”

Jeanne Smythe then straightened up and grabbed the pair of winter boots while still staring hard at Filder.

“I will now let you finish your roast chicken and potatoes with butter, so that you can hopefully find time after lunch to finally release for distribution those winter clothes and boots. Oh, by the way, I brought you a special treat for dessert.” She threw down a rolled handkerchief that contained something, then left the dining room with the pair of winter boots, leaving the worn Summer boots on his table. Totally humiliated and intimidated by now, Filder could only stare with apprehension at the rolled handkerchief that had landed in the middle of his plate of food, unable to gather the courage to check what was in it. The Aide-de-Camp of Lord Raglan, who had been dining at a table nearby with his wife and another staff officer, then approached Filder and, after a short hesitation, opened the handkerchief. Filder bent over at once and threw up violently at the sight of the three blackened human toes inside the handkerchief. It took him nearly a minute to regain his composure. He then looked angrily at Lord Raglan’s ADC, who had rolled back the handkerchief and taken it out of Filder’s plate.

“That damn woman should be flogged publicly for such an affront. I will personally complain about this to Lord Raglan.”

The ADC, a colonel, gave him a most unfriendly look in return.

“Mister Filder, don’t you know that the troops widely call Lady Jeanne ‘The Angel of Balaklava’? You will not find a single soldier in this army ready or willing to flog such

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a woman. Besides, doing such a thing would probably bring General Bosquet at a gallop to challenge you to a duel, sir.”

Filder, who was about to protest further, clamed up at those last words: French General Bosquet was renown as a true fighting general and as a first rate duelist. He was also said to be in most friendly, albeit correct, terms with Jeanne Smythe.

The story of Filder’s public humiliation took less than a day to reach all the British Army camps around Sebastopol and Balaklava. Within two days, all the British infantrymen serving in the trenches were laughing hard about it. Despite of this, or rather as a spite for the affront against him, Filder still managed to take another two months to have the winter gear distributed to the troops, by which time it was too late to be of much good. On his part, William Howard Russell didn’t waste that golden opportunity to write yet another incendiary article for his readers in London about the ineptitude of the British supply system and the uncaring attitude of Filder and of his Commissariat Department.

09:51 (London Time)

Tuesday, January 23, 1855

House of Commons, Westminster

London, England

“ORDER! ORDER, PLEASE!” shouted the Speaker of the House of Commons in order to be heard over the din of angry exchanges and insults flying between the members of the ruling party and those of the opposition. “THE FLOOR IS OPEN TO THE HONORABLE MEMBER FOR SHEFFIELD.”

John Arthur Roebuck, Deputy for the County of Sheffield and member of the Radical Party, got up and, ignoring the few catcalls coming from the ranks of the ruling Conservative Party, started speaking in a strong voice.

“Mister Speaker, gentlemen, we have heard plenty in the last few weeks and months about the appalling conditions under which our brave soldiers and sailors are fighting in Crimea. We have already heard too many tales of ineptitude, gross incompetence and utter neglect shown by senior officers and bureaucrats towards our beleaguered fighting men. We simply cannot allow such ineptitude and waste of human lives to continue. I thus propose that this House forms at once a select committee which

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would then go to the Crimea to inquire into the conditions of the army before the city of Sebastopol, so that such disgrace could be put to an end.” Roebuck then sat back as a short silence followed: his proposal clearly amounted to a motion of non-confidence in the government of Lord Aberdeen. The Speaker of the House then rose from his chair.

“WE HAVE A MOTION TO FORM A SELECT COMMITTEE TO INQUIRE INTO THE CONDITIONS OF OUR ARMY IN CRIMEA. DO I HAVE SOMEONE TO SECOND THAT MOTION?”

“I SECOND THE MOTION!” Shouted at once a Liberal Party member. The Speaker now had no choice but to conduct a vote on the proposed motion. Going through the established procedures for such votes took nearly half an hour. When the result was announced, the House dissolved into nervous laughter: the government of Lord Aberdeen had just been soundly defeated!

13:50 (Crimea Time)

Friday, March 9, 1855

Balaklava harbor, Crimea

To Roger Fenton’s immense relief, his precious photographic van was put down intact on the wharf by the ship’s steam-powered crane. His big horse was already on the quay with him, so he was able at once to tie it to his wagon. Fenton was about to get on his wagon to drive it off the wharf when the strangest wagon he had ever seen arrived at a trot, preceded by a light, four-wheeled cart and a woman on horseback. Fenton’s heart jumped at once at the sight of the woman and of the cart, which bore on its side the inscription ‘AMBULANCE’: That woman on horseback had to be the famous Lady Jeanne Smythe. Realizing that his wagon was in the way on the wharf, Fenton got on it and urged his horse forward. He rolled for only a few dozen yards, in order to free the wharf, then stopped his wagon and applied the handbrake before jumping down and running to the back of his van to take out his camera. When he emerged from his van with his heavy, tripod-mounted camera, wounded and sick men were being taken out of the big medical wagon and of the ambulance cart, with Lady Jeanne Smythe actually helping to carry the patients on stretchers aboard the ship which had brought Fenton. Setting his camera up on the

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wharf, he waited until Lady Smythe, dressed in a dark red skirt, wool jacket and high boots, approached him while carrying a stretcher with the help of a sailor.

“Could you hold the pause for a second, please?”

Both the woman and the sailor froze where they were long enough for Fenton to activate his magnesium flash and take a picture. While the sailor nearly jumped back from the surprise the flash gave him, the woman simply smiled afterwards and spoke quickly to Fenton as she resumed her walk and passed besides him with her loaded stretcher.

“I assume that you are not one of those ‘Traveling Gentlemen’ from Europe, sir.”

“Roger Fenton’s the name, madam. I’m a professional photographer. You must be Lady Jeanne Smythe.”

“What was your first clue?” she said with a grin before walking up the boarding ramp. She was back on the wharf a few minutes later, carrying her now empty stretcher, and came straight to Fenton to shake his hand.

“Welcome to Balaklava, Mister Fenton. Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“Uh, not yet, Lady Jeanne. I however heard about an establishment near the harbor called the British Hotel. Do you know it?”

“I do, sir.” she replied with a smile. “My friend Mary Seacole runs it. If you want, I can guide you to it once I am finished here.”

“You are too kind, Lady Jeanne.”

“Please, drop the Lady thing and just call me Jeanne. I am a very liberal woman.”

“As you wish, Jeanne.”

Roger Fenton then waited patiently for all the patients to be carried aboard the steam ship, putting back his camera inside his van in the meantime. He was ready to roll when the medical wagon and cart left the harbor and followed Lady Jeanne along a dirt road paralleled by a railroad track under construction.

A kilometer and a half down the road, they arrived at a large tent camp apparently occupied by cavalry units. In one corner of the camp, by the side of the road, was also a large tent complex. Above the main entrance was a large sign proclaiming it to be the field hospital of the 8th Hussars Regiment. While the medical wagon and cart went to park inside a long tent facing the hospital, Jeanne Smythe kept riding down the road, guiding Fenton further on. Another two kilometers further down the road, they left it and took a trail that led up a small hill,

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on top of which were a few buildings, most of which looked dilapidated. Jeanne Smythe finally stopped her horse and jumped down in front of the biggest of the buildings, which seems to have been the residence of someone affluent. Roger Fenton parked his photographic van near a corner of the building and tied his horse to a pole, then joined Jeanne near the main entrance. From the noises coming from the inside of the building it appeared occupied, while three British officers walked out as Roger and Jeanne were about to go in. Jeanne spoke to him while entering the building ahead of Roger.

“ Mary Seacole is from the West Indies and came to Crimea by her own means, which were quite limited actually, to do what she could to help our neglected soldiers. She helped the wounded and sick more than once and is a very kind, motherly type woman. She set up this establishment only a few weeks ago. It has a canteen for the troops, a British club room and a few visitors rooms. You will like Mary: she has a heart of gold and everybody here calls her ‘Mother’.”

“Sounds like a fascinating person to me, Jeanne.”

“She is, Mister Fenton.”

As she spoke, they entered a large vestibule with a wide staircase leading to the upper floor. Jeanne then went to a door to the right and led Roger into a sort of hall furnished with tables and chairs and occupied by a mixed crowd of over a dozen men in uniform, with also three women present. A portly woman in her late thirties with dark brown skin and braided hair smiled on seeing Jeanne and motioned to her from behind a service counter. Jeanne went to her at once and, stopping near the counter, presented Roger to the woman.

“Mary, this is Roger Fenton, a professional photographer who just arrived from England with his photo van. Mister Fenton, this is Mary Seacole, everybody’s friend here.”

“Pleased to meet you, madam.” said Roger while shaking hands with the buxom woman. Mary Seacole in turn smiled gently to him.

“Welcome to my establishment, Mister Fenton. A photographer will indeed be nice to have around Crimea, so that the British public sees in what conditions our brave soldiers have to fight. I suppose that you will need a room?”

“Indeed, madam, that is if you still have one available.”

“I do have a couple of rooms left unoccupied, Mister Fenton.” said Mary before looking at Jeanne. “I will take good care of him, Jeanne. Thanks for bringing him here.”

“My pleasure, Mary.”

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The noise from heavy guns firing in the distance, which had been going on all the while at intervals, suddenly redoubled, making Jeanne turn her head towards a window facing Sebastopol. Her face now reflected preoccupation.

“It seems that the artillery duel with the Russians is heating up. Men will be in need of help out there. If you will excuse me, Mister Fenton.” Jeanne then walked out at a quick step, leaving Fenton with Mary Seacole.

“Quite an extraordinary woman, I would say.” said Fenton while watching Jeanne go, making Mary Seacole nod somberly her head.

“The best I have ever seen, Mister Fenton. Her courage is only equaled by her compassion and care. I am however afraid that many in England will dismiss or badmouth her for what they consider unwomanly actions by her.” Roger Fenton could only nod at that. In his visits to various gentlemen’s clubs in London, he had heard often enough haughty aristocrats and businessmen talk with contempt and even indignation about Jeanne Smythe not clinging to what was considered proper for a woman to do. Many English ladies also spoke badly of her, feigning scandal at her habit of wearing military style clothes and carrying weapons. The hypocrisy of it all had actually disgusted him, especially when coming from vain people who cared more about the next ball or social reunion than about the fate of the thousands of British soldiers suffering and dying in the name of England in Crimea.

14:35 (Crimea Time)

Thursday, May 17, 1855

8th Hussars lines, Kadikoi, Crimea

Lord George Paget, freshly arrived from England, stopped his horse as he entered the lines of his regiment, hesitant and full of doubts. After returning to England following the battle of Balaklava, all of his former acquaintances and friends had snubbed him at his London club, knowing why he was back while his soldiers had to stay in Crimea. Paget had finally been shamed into taking back his commission and sailing back to Crimea. He was however unsure how his former subalterns and men would greet him. They had after all a lot of good reasons to despise him. However, the hard lesson this whole sorry episode had taught him had sunk into Paget: commanding men in war was a privilege that should be earned and not bought. Now, he could only hope that his men would forgive him and give him a chance to prove himself. Seeing a patrol

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of Hussars that was seemingly returning from the frontlines, Paget urged his horse at a trot to meet his men. Captain Gordon Smythe, tired and covered with dust and dirt, was the officer in charge of the patrol. Paget returned Smythe’s salute, which had been less than crisp.

“Captain, I would like to have the whole regiment lined up in our parade ground by five O’clock, before supper time. I will have news to pass then.”

“The whole regiment, sir? What about our ambulance staff? Do they have to attend as well?”

“Yes! I have something for them as well.”

“Very well, sir. I will inform Major Henry at once.”

Then, without welcoming him back, Gordon Smythe saluted Paget and galloped away with his patrol. Paget felt bitter at that but could not blame Smythe for his attitude, as he knew that he deserved the cold shoulder treatment he was probably going to get from all of his subordinates.

Paget next went to the stables sheltering the horses of his regiment. Put up by Lady Jeanne’s construction crew after the completion of both the unit’s field hospital and personnel barracks, the long assembly of marquee tents was the envy of the other British cavalry regiments in Crimea. Compared to the warm, well stocked stables of the 8th Hussars, the other cavalry regiments had to let their horses survive outdoors during the past winter and had as a consequence lost the great majority of their horses to cold and starvation. Only now were replacement horses starting to arrive in significant numbers by ship, along with the hundreds of new soldiers and officers needed to replenish the sadly depleted ranks of the British corps. A trooper came to him at once with a limp in his left leg and grabbed the reins of his horse, saluting Paget at the same time.

“Good day, sir! Let me take care of your horse, sir. We have plenty of feed grain and clean water for it here, sir.”

Seeing a number of other troopers at work in the barn, all with some apparent handicap or physical weakness, Paget nodded to the soldier.

“I see many lame troopers here, Corporal. Are they all on light duties?”

“Yes, sir! The men who have recovered enough at the field hospital but who are still unfit for full battlefield duties are assigned as a routine to the regimental stables, sir. This way we can still be useful and our horses get pampered, if I may say so, sir.”

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“A sensible policy indeed, Corporal. Do you know where the quarters for the regimental commander would be?”

The trooper kept a neutral face then, not showing his inner thoughts at those last words.

“Your quarters are in the regimental command post barrack, sir, along with those of Major Henry. The command post is marked with a large sign above its entrance and is the first barrack in our regimental lines, sir.”

“Thank you, Corporal. Carry on!”

Leaving the barn on foot while carrying himself his two pieces of luggage, Paget walked to the regimental command post, which was effectively easy to identify. Entering the

wooden hut, Paget found Major Henry giving directives to a young cornet21. Both came to attention when Paget entered the command room, a large space with a few chairs and tables along the walls and with a large map board hooked to a wall.

“At ease, gentlemen.” said at once Paget. Both Henry and the cornet relaxed their position, with the former greeting his old commander in a neutral, cautious voice.

“Welcome back to Kadikoi, sir. Are you taking back command of the regiment, sir?”

“I am, Major. I want to address the whole regiment at five O’clock.”

“Captain Smythe informed me about that, sir. I was sending Cornet Brown to pass the word around to the men. Uh, about the personnel of our field hospital, some may not be able to attend, as they cannot abandon their patients to themselves even for short periods of time, sir.”

“How many patients are there in our hospital, Major?” asked Paget out of pure curiosity. Henry had to think about that for a moment before answering.

“About 130, sir. Men from many other regiments are treated at our field hospital because of its superior level of medical care.”

“Then, tell Doctor Farrell that he can send only those whom he can spare. If he could manage to have Lady Jeanne Smythe and Misses Ward and O’Neil attend the parade, I would appreciate it a lot.”

“Understood, sir. I will pass the word personally to Doctor Farrell. By the way, sir, the commander’s room is still unoccupied. It is the door on the left in the back of this room, sir.”

 

21 Cornet: Lowest officer’s rank in the British Army of that time.

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“Thank you, Major. I will unpack my things while you have the word passed around.”

“Yes sir! Cornet Brown, help Lord Paget with his luggage before going out.”

“Yes sir!” replied the young man, actually a mere teenager who still didn’t need to shave every day. Brown grabbed both of Paget’s bags and carried them, letting Paget lead the way and open the door of the commander’s room. Paget was agreeably surprised by what he saw: there was a real bed in one corner, a nightstand, a work desk with chair, a padded easy chair and a clothes locker. There even was a small wood stove inside the room, sitting on a thin iron plate laid on the wooden floor. Dismissing the young cornet, Paget then closed the door behind him and started unpacking.

Two hours later, Paget left his room, dressed in his best uniform and carrying a large, flat wooden box in his hands. Again, Cornet Brown went to his help and carried the box for him out and to the regimental parade ground, where about seventy men and officers were lined up. To Paget’s satisfaction, Lady Jeanne was present with Misses Ward and O’Neil and Doctor Farrell on the side of the parade ground. Paget noticed with some surprise the bulging belly evident in Jeanne Smythe. He then gallantly saluted her, to which she bowed her head in acknowledgement. Walking to a position facing his pitifully small regiment, Paget stopped at attention fifteen yards in front of his men, then spoke in a strong voice.

“Men of the 8th Hussars! I am here to announce two things. First, I am resuming command of this regiment as of this moment. I fully realize that I failed you all when I left you last November, and for this I am going to feel personal shame to my dying day. I can only promise you that I will not fail you again. The second thing I want to announce is that Her Majesty, Queen Victoria, has authorized the release of a campaign medal with battle clasps for the war in Crimea. Before leaving England, I collected all the medals owed to members of this regiment and brought them with me. I will now have the honor and pleasure to distribute them to you.”

Paget then walked to the right flank of the line of men, followed by Cornet Brown with his wooden box, and started distributing Crimea War medals with their stripped pale blue and yellow ribbons and their silver battle clasps. Pining each medal personally on the chest of each of his surviving men and handing them as well the battle clasps they were entitled to, Paget had finished going through the ranks in less

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than an hour. He then walked to the four members of the regimental field hospital present on the sidelines, stopping first in front of Doctor Thomas Farrell. He smiled warmly while pinning a campaign medal on the chest of the young surgeon.

“Doctor, I remember clearly the moment when I saw you and your nurses standing ready by your medical wagon as I and the survivors of the Light Brigade were galloping back from charging those Russian guns. The sight of seeing you and your intrepid staff fortified our hearts then. This campaign medal, with a clasp for the battle of Balaklava, has been amply earned by you, Doctor.”

“Thank you, Milord.” could only say Farrell, as timid as ever. Paget next stepped in front on Jeanne Smythe. He knew from London newspaper articles about her Légion d’Honneur but still couldn’t help stare at the French medal, hanging from its scarlet neck ribbon. He then looked up into the green eyes of Jeanne, who stared back at him. Paget then spoke in a near whisper to her.

“I sincerely hope that you will forgive me for fleeing the way I did in November, Lady Jeanne. It would mean a lot to me, truly.”

Jeanne’s eyes then softened noticeably.

“A fault acknowledged is a fault forgiven, Milord.”

“Thank you, Lady Jeanne.” said Paget before raising his voice back to normal. “For your incredible courage and dedication to our wounded men on the battlefield, you deserve clearly much more than this simple campaign medal with clasps for the battles of the Alma, Balaklava and Inkerman. I can however tell you that I personally pushed for higher awards for both you and your two field nurses, Misses Ward and O’Neil. I can also tell you that it looks like my recommendations were listened to with sympathetic ears in London.”

“My true reward was to be able to save our wounded men, Milord. Will you be visiting the hospital afterwards to give medals to the patients from our regiment, Milord?”

“I certainly will, Lady Jeanne. They paid a high enough price already for those medals.”

Paget next gave medals to Margaret Ward and Janet O’Neil, who were both beaming with pride as he pinned the medals to their nurse’s aprons. Before walking away, Paget had a last look at the three women lined in front of him.

“Ladies, any commander would be proud to command men with only half of your courage. To you and to the men of this regiment, I salute you.”

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Paget saluted the three women and Doctor Farrell, then turned around and saluted his officers and men. That simple gesture, along with Paget’s public apology, did a lot to make him accepted back by his regiment.

11:07 (Crimea Time)

Wednesday, July 25, 1855

8th Hussars field hospital

Kadikoi, Crimea

Jeanne sat dejectedly on the chair in her cubicle, feeling next to useless now: Thomas Farrell had just ordered her to stay on forced rest in view of her pregnancy, which was very close to its term. An idea then came to her mind and, with a smile of anticipation on her young face, she got up and searched in her locker. Pulling out of it her guitar, bardic harp and flute, she then walked heavily out of her room, heading towards the patients’ lounge. If she could not care anymore for them for a while, she at least could still entertain her patients with music and songs. Jeanne was damned if Farrell could find anything wrong with that.

16:51 (Crimea Time)

Saturday, July 28, 1855 ‘A’

Kadikoi, Crimea

The moment Gordon Smythe entered the Hussars lines after coming back from patrol, he dismissed his troop to their quarters and galloped at once to the field hospital. He knew that Jeanne could give birth at any time now and didn’t want to miss the coming of their first child. Dismounting in front of the hospital’s entrance and tying his horse to one of the poles provided for that purpose, he nearly ran inside and went to the reception desk, where a nurse was on duty.

“Misses Grant, can you tell me if my wife has entered labor yet?”

“She actually gave birth less than half an hour ago, Captain.” announced proudly the nurse. Her announcement froze Gordon on the spot as he looked back at her with dismay.

“Blast! I missed it! Is Jeanne alright?”

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“She is tired but doing well, Captain. She is in her room, breastfeeding her baby.”

“Is it a boy or a girl?” asked Gordon, some impatience in his voice. The nurse only smiled at that.

“Jeanne ordered me not to tell you, Captain. Sorry!”

Swearing under his breath, Gordon started running. He was at the entrance of Jeanne’s room within a minute and went in at once without knocking. He then saw Jeanne sitting in a rocking chair near her bed, a baby wrapped in a blanket held in her arms and with one breast denuded. The smile she gave him then was worth a thousand kisses.

“Come see our son, Gordon.” She said softly, her voice kept low in order not to startle her baby. Gordon approached her quietly and, after kissing her on the mouth, knelt next to the rocking chair to contemplate the small face of his son, pride washing over him.

“He is beautiful. Hello, little William.”

He then kissed tenderly the head of the baby and looked back at Jeanne, tears coming out of his eyes.

“Thank you, Jeanne, for everything.”

“And thank you for your love, Gordon. You are a good man indeed.” They sealed that mutual declaration with a kiss, then looked both down at their baby son, who was still sucking milk happily, his eyes closed and his tiny hands on Jeanne’s breast.

“What now, Jeanne?” asked Gordon, overwhelmed by the moment. Jeanne answered while raising a hand to caress his cheek.

“I take it easy for a week or two, time to recuperate from childbirth, then I will start progressively getting back into shape. You wouldn’t want to see me become fat, do you?”

“I would love you in any shape, my dear Jeanne.”

That declaration made Jeanne smile with incredulity.

“Oh no you wouldn’t, Gordon. You love too much those buns of steel of mine...and my firm chest.”

Gordon had nothing to say to that, simply because she was right…again.

04:30 (Crimea Time)

Saturday, September 8, 1855 ‘A’

8th Hussars field hospital

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Kadikoi, Crimea

Nancy reappeared in a flash of light inside her room, wearing a Victorian era dress and ready to resume her life as Jeanne Smythe. She had just spent over six months at the main Time Patrol base in the distant past in order to both see her two other sons, James and Charles, and to get back in full physical and mental shape after her pregnancy and her hard months of nursing work in Crimea. Going at once to the crib containing little William, she saw that he had not awakened during the ten minutes she was absent from her room in this time period. Careful not to make noises and awaken her son, Jeanne went to her locker and took off her dress, changing quietly into her dark red field outfit of riding dress, jacket, high boots, leather equipment vest and white apron. She then grabbed her two revolvers and carefully loaded them. William woke up and started wailing as she was oiling her sword’s blade. Putting down her sword on her work desk, Jeanne went to the crib and gently took William in her arms.

“You are getting hungry, are you, my sweet William? Here, have your fill.” With her baby sucking her left nipple, she sat in her rocking chair and waited patiently for him to be full, then made him burp and changed his diaper as well. With William still in her arms, Jeanne left her room and toured quietly the patients wards, her heart heavy: many more beds were going to be filled by the end of this day. As for the men presently in the wards, they had stopped months ago to be simply historical statistics to her. She knew them well as human beings, having assisted them in moments of pure helplessness and pain and having seen them at their most vulnerable. She had cried more than once when one of them had died, often in her arms, or when they had cried themselves after being amputated and losing a leg or an arm, or both. Whether Farah Tolkonen liked it or not, Nancy WAS Jeanne Smythe, senior nurse and benefactor of the 8th Hussars field hospital and wife of a Hussars officer. This may have been only one of her three lives she lived in parallel but it was still very much a real life for her. She was damned if she was going to let thousands of men die today without doing a thing to at least help the wounded. She was fully conscious that she could very well be maimed or even killed in the process of helping British soldiers today but she was ready to run the risks. Her only hesitation was about the effects on her son and her husband if she got killed.

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As she was going towards the wing housing the men’s wards, she met a large group of her patients who had been convalescing and were now leaving, led by an infantry captain and a sergeant-major. The men wore their uniforms and had their weapons and gear. Jeanne interposed herself at once, blocking the way of the captain and eyeing him firmly.

“Do you have a medical release form signed by a doctor for these men, Captain?”

The young captain, who knew better than to ignore her, nodded politely and showed her a list bearing the signature of Doctor Farrell.

“I have, Lady Jeanne. I know that those men are barely healed of their wounds but we sorely need all the available soldiers today, especially in the case of infantrymen.”

Jeanne reviewed the list quickly, comparing the number of names with the number of soldiers following the captain. The numbers agreed so she gave the list back to the officer and stepped aside. As the soldiers, looking downcast, filed past her, she couldn’t help tears coming to her eyes.

“May God be with you all!”

A young cornet who was no more than sixteen years-old and was still walking with a slight limp looked at her with something close to love in his eyes.

“God was with us, Lady Jeanne, as he sent us one of his angels to care for us.” Those words finished breaking her heart and she started crying openly while the men passed by her. It took everything for her to be able to say a few words to them before they walked away.

“I won’t abandon you today, I swear!”

The sergeant at the end of the line turned his head to look at her then while still walking, swallowing hard as he eyed her and her baby.

“You never abandoned us, Lady Jeanne. May God bless you.”

11:14 (Crimea Time)

Hills facing the Russian Redan Bastion

Fanny Duberly, trying to go around the British cavalry troopers posted to block the way to the front to civilian tourists, sighed with exasperation when she encountered a cavalry patrol in the ravine in front of Cathcart’s Hill.

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“Damn! I thought that I had them mystified.”

Fanny didn’t try to gallop away as the sergeant of the Lancers approached her and saluted her.

“Madam, you can’t proceed further than this point. It is too dangerous closer to the batteries.”

“Sir, know that I am the wife of Captain Duberly, of the 8th Hussars.”

“Madam, my orders apply to ALL the civilians.” replied patiently the sergeant, having heard countless excuses from civilians and tourists trying to get to the frontlines for some cheap thrills. Fanny was about to shoot a retort to that when the noise of a horse approaching fast made both her and the sergeant turn their heads towards the South and Balaklava. A rider soon turned the bend of the trail following the base of the hill, its horse going at an incredible speed.

“What the…” started to say the surprised sergeant. He then saw the long black hair of the rider floating in the wind and tried to interpose his horse to stop the woman coming at him. Fanny, who had recognized the rider at once, shouted to the sergeant.

“THAT’S LADY JEANNE SMYTHE, GOING TO DO HER NURSE’S DUTIES AT THE FRONT!”

That shout made the sergeant hesitate long enough to let Jeanne gallop past him like the wind. Jeanne, wearing a big pack on her back and her equipment vest around her torso, smiled at Fanny as she passed.

“THANKS, FANNY!”

Fanny smiled with pride at that, happy to have been able to help the intrepid French woman do her mission of mercy.

Jeanne soon had to make Pegasus slow its infernal pace, as she was now very close to the British advanced trench facing the Russian strongpoint of the Redan, a large earthworks defensive complex bristling with guns. Dismounting near what was left of a tree, she loosely tied the reins of her horse to the dead tree trunk and continued on foot, soon jumping down into the advance trench. Dozens of British infantrymen progressing on foot along the trench greeted her with cheers and hurrahs.

“It’s mighty nice to see you here, madam.” said a young soldier to her, making her smile.

“And I am happy to be here to support you, guys. Be assured that I will be right behind you to take care of any wounded man.”

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Grunts of approbation greeted her words: being cared for on the battlefield if wounded was one thing that any soldier valued greatly, as it would often mean the difference between life and death for him. The infantrymen then resumed their slow march down the wide trench leading to the Russian defensive works, Jeanne mixed in with the assault troopers.

12:02 (Crimea Time)

Forward British command and observation post

Main British trench facing Sebastopol

William Howard Russell looked on with trepidation through his spyglass as a loud cheer rose from the French trenches on the left of the British trenches. Thousands of French Zouaves, easily recognizable by their baggy red trousers, then rushed out of their trenches, which had been pushed to as close as twenty yards from their main objective, the Malakoff Tower. Within seconds, they ran through the murderous Russian gun and rifle fire pouring on them from three sides and threw in place assault ladders to make their way inside the Russian earthworks. Watching with the British high command staff and the many civilian tourists standing or sitting on the hill used by them as a forward observation post, Russell felt elation as a huge French flag appeared in minutes above the Malakoff Tower.

“Bloody hell! The French did it! They have the Malakoff Tower, at last!” He then turned his spyglass towards the British advance trench but saw little movement there. Perplex, he looked at Fanny Duberly, who had joined him less than ten minutes ago on top of the hill.

“What the hell are our soldiers waiting for to attack?”

“According to my husband, we are to wait for confirmation that the Malakoff Tower is solidly in French hands before launching our own assault. Any assault on the Redan is impossible until the Malakoff has been taken.”

Russell frowned at that: this wasn’t the first time that the British Army had played second fiddle to the much larger French Army contingent in Crimea. Hopefully, the British command would get it right this time. Glancing at the three British generals present in the observation post, Russell had to cool his expectations about that: there was little martial about the appearance or attitude of those old men. The commander-in-chief, General Simpson, sat on a chair in the main trench, a greatcoat wrapped around him to

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fight the cold wind. General Jones wore a red nightcap and lay reclined on a litter while watching the action with his spyglass. As for Quartermaster-General Richard Airey, he had a white handkerchief tied over his cap and ears and fastened under his chin. A crowd of staff officers and civilian tourists stood around the three generals, with the tourists treating the battle as one big exciting show. Russell shook his head in disgust at that, wishing that he could kick the butts of those vain tourists. The one visitor who had a legitimate purpose to be here, Roger Fenton, had his camera set on its tripod and was busily taking picture after picture of the battle, concentrating on the ones deserving the attention: the fighting soldiers in the field.

The arrival of the ambulance cart and medical wagon of the 8th Hussars in the ravine in front of the observation post a few minutes later temporarily attracted the eyes of the British onlookers. Russell took some notes as the nurses and doctors attached to the field hospital quickly set up the medical wagon for operation, while the ambulance cart continued on to get as close to the advance trench as it safely could. Watching it closely, he saw the cart stop besides a solitary horse tied to a tree trunk and wondered aloud about it.

“Who could have left his horse in such a dangerous place?” Fanny Duberly answered him without hesitation, not bothering to keep her voice down.

“Jeanne Smythe. I saw her gallop to the advance trench about one hour ago, dressed in her field outfit and carrying a pack of field bandages.”

“But…she gave birth only a month ago.” said Russell, shocked. Fanny nodded her head at that, her expression somber.

“I know, William. No one should doubt her dedication and courage by now. I just hope that she gets properly rewarded for that once back in England.” Russell grunted in approbation, taking more notes before resuming his observation with his spyglass. The British troops had not moved out of their trenches yet, while the fighting was still furious on the left flank, where the French were still fighting to take their two other objectives for this day, the ‘Little Redan’ and the ‘Flagstaff’ bastions. Maybe twenty minutes later the British heavy guns, which had kept a furious fire up to now, suddenly fell silent. A great chorus of cheers then rose from the British trenches as thousands of soldiers in red coats climbed out of them and started running in the open towards the Redan bastion. Russell felt both excitement and horror as he watched the troopers run the 200 yards of open ground between their advance trench and the

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Russian earthworks. Russian guns firing from three strong points, along with hundreds of Russian riflemen, then started to cut swaths in the ranks of the rushing British soldiers. Russel’s heart sank as he saw hundreds of men being cut down, and this only in the first minute of the assault. The remark from a nearby tourist watching through a spyglass then made him focus on a particular part of the battlefield.

“Look at that coward over there, hiding behind a wounded officer.”

“That’s not a coward, you sniveling asshole!” fired back angrily Russell once he had a good look with his spyglass. “That’s Lady Jeanne Smythe treating that wounded officer under fire.”

As the tourist smarted from his response, Russell passed on his spyglass to Fanny Duberly, who was clearly eager to watch her friend. Fanny looked through the spyglass for a few seconds, then gave the spyglass back to Russell.

”God bless Jeanne. I would never be able to gather that kind of courage.” Taking back his spyglass, Russell watched the progress of the British attack with growing anxiety, describing what he saw to Fanny as the action went.

“Our men are now in the ditch at the foot of the Redan and setting up their assault ladders. God, we are losing dozens of men every second… I can see Colonel Windham waving his hat and sword from atop the parapet of the Russian positions and encouraging his men to follow him inside the earthworks.” Russell then saw something that shocked and scandalized him.

“Bloody hell! Only a handful of soldiers are following Colonel Windham inside the Russian positions. The rest of our men are staying behind the parapet and taking occasional potshots from behind cover. Come on! Get inside the position while you can!”

A concert of exclamations of disappointment and disbelief from the British high command staff then told him that he had not been alone in noticing the lack of zeal of the attacking British infantrymen.

As the British generals were watching from their safe observation post the stalling of their attack, Jeanne jumped down in the wide, deep trench dug by the Russians around the foot of their bastion. The trench was already half covered with dead and dying British soldiers, with more soldiers clinging precariously against the outside of the parapets while bullets, grapeshot and cannonballs flew around them. Over the din of the battle, she heard and then saw Colonel Windham exhort his men in

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following him inside the earthworks through the gun embrasures. Less than a hundred men followed his lead and went in, while a good two thousand more soldiers stayed were they were, content in firing occasionally over the parapet. Watching that with dismay, Jeanne then saw the young cornet who had complimented her in the hospital this morning rally a handful of men around him before stepping inside the bastion through an embrasure, his sword pointing forward. Something then broke inside Jeanne. She had to do all that she could to get that brave teenage boy out of there alive, even at the risk of getting killed. That last thought nearly made her laugh then: where she was right now was already a good place to get killed at any moment. Seeing a man that was grimacing with pain while holding his left leg, Jeanne went to him and, after examining him quickly, bandaged his heavily bleeding leg. After promising to get back to him, Jeanne then climbed one of the assault ladders up to the level of the gun embrasures. The dozen or so British infantrymen cowering on each side of the nearest embrasure looked at her with horror and disbelief.

“Bloody hell, maam, what are you doing here?” asked a shocked corporal. Jeanne gave him a less than friendly look.

“And what are you men still doing here? Watching the fucking scenery?” On those harsh words, she stepped around them and entered the Russian bastion, walking on top of a destroyed heavy gun to do so.

At the forward command observation post, William Russell became as white as a sheet and felt his heart stop when he saw through his spyglass Jeanne enter the Russian earthworks. Seeing his dismay, Fanny Duberly looked up anxiously at him.

“What is it, William? What did you just see?”

“Jeanne Smythe…she just entered the Redan.”

“WHAT?” shouted Fanny, shocked. Unable to do anything about that, she then resigned herself to watch, wait and pray.

Once past the first earth parapet, Jeanne found herself in a wide trench that zigzagged its way to both her left and right, with heavy guns positioned at close intervals of a few yards only. Dozens of Russian and British soldiers lay around her, dead or wounded, while the few British soldiers who had entered the Redan were fighting furiously to stop a counterattack by Russian soldiers charging with bayonets. Knowing that the time available to her would be short, Jeanne started at once inspecting the

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British soldiers lying around in the dirt. The first one she found alive was a young private holding his guts, where a Russian bayonet was stuck. The young man was obviously in great pain and implored Jeanne with his eyes. She in turn gave him a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry, Private: I will fix you up in no time.”

Taking out a small bottle of chloroform first and a swab of cotton, she administered a few drops of chloroform to the teenager, wanting to cut his suffering as soon as possible. She had been treating him for less than a minute when the young soldier died quietly in her arms. Holding in her tears with difficulty, Jeanne went to the next British wounded, a sergeant in his late twenties who was bleeding profusely from a bullet wound in his right shoulder. This time Jeanne was able to treat him without risking to lose him quickly and applied a thick field dressing on his entry and exit wound. As she was getting up to go to another wounded British soldier, the sergeant suddenly grabbed her sleeve and spoke to her.

“Bless you, Lady Jeanne.”

“No need to, Sergeant. Let me care for that one over there and I will be back for you.”

The sergeant let her go at those words, allowing her to go to a British junior officer who lay moaning under a dead Russian gunner. Pulling off the dead Russian from over the wounded, Jeanne then realized with a jump of her heart that this was the young cornet who had spoken to her in the hospital. Frantically checking him out, she was reassured to find that he had suffered from a single blow to the head that was bleeding a lot but was otherwise a superficial wound. She cleaned the head gash with water and alcohol, then bandaged it in a hurry, as she could hear the fighting getting nearer to her by now. She was finishing her first aid work on the young cornet, who was unconscious, when British soldiers started running past her, heading out of the bastion. Colonel Windham was shouting orders urgently from a mere twenty yards in her back.

“FALL BACK! FALL BACK! FRONT PLATOON, HOLD THE LINE WHILE THE OTHERS RETREAT!”

Seeing Jeanne from behind and not noticing her long hair in the heat of the action, Windham shouted at her.

“YOU! GRAB THAT WOUNDED MAN AND CARRY HIM OUT! MAKE IT QUICK, AS WE HAVE ONLY SECONDS TO EVACUATE.” Jeanne at once threw the unconscious cornet over her shoulders in a classic fireman’s carry position and got up before facing Windham.

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“I need two men who could help that wounded sergeant over there, Colonel.” Windham, not believing his eyes or ears for a second, nonetheless reacted quickly enough and pointed at two soldiers near him.

“YOU AND YOU! GO HELP THAT WOUNDED SERGEANT AND GET HIM OUT OF HERE!”

“YES SIR!” shouted back the most senior soldier before running with his comrade to the sergeant who had been bandaged by Jeanne. The sergeant was quickly if not gently pulled up on his feet and then helped out through the nearest gun embrasure. Jeanne was right behind them, the limp cornet still draped over her shoulders, followed by two soldiers and Colonel Windham. Once out of the bastion proper, Windham stayed by the side of the embrasure, encouraging his men as they rushed out of the Russian position. As the last British soldier rushed out, Russians hot on his heels, Windham shouted at a nearby soldier carrying a heavy hand grenade.

“FIRE YOUR GRENADE AND THROW IT IN!”

The soldier, an old corporal with a lit cigar in his mouth, took out his clumsy grenade and lit its wicker fuse with his cigar, then waited until it was nearly burned out before throwing it inside the embrasure. Two seconds later a muffled explosion and screams of pain came from the inside, while smoke blew out through the embrasure.

“WELL DONE, CORPORAL! NOW, LET’S GET BACK TO OUR TRENCHES!” The two British, now nearly alone against the Russian parapets, lost no time in hurriedly sliding down the steep dirt slope to the surrounding ditch. There, they joined the hundreds of soldiers climbing desperately out of the ditch so that they could run back to the British trenches. Thankfully the British artillery gunners, seeing their comrades of the infantry retreat, resumed fire at once against the embrasures of the Redan, providing covering fire to the retreating soldiers. Windham ended up climbing out of the ditch right behind Jeanne and offered to help her carry the cornet once on top, to which Jeanne shook her head.

“Take care of your other men, Colonel. I am taking care of that brave boy.”

“As you wish, Lady Jeanne.” said Windham, then switching his attention to his surviving men and urging them back to their trench. To his surprise, eight female nurses from the 8th Hussars and two civilian doctors were present in the advance trench when he jumped in it with relief. The wounded carried by Jeanne Smythe was laid at once on a stretcher and carried away to the rear by four women, soon followed by the wounded sergeant. Windham was about to thank profusely Jeanne for her exploits when he saw

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with dismay the young French woman run out again from the advance trench, going towards the Redan bastion. Flabbergasted, he could only shout at the running woman.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING? COME BACK!”

“I’M GOING TO GET OTHER WOUNDED MEN LYING AROUND!” She shouted back before disappearing in a thick cloud of white smoke drifting across the battlefield.

Jeanne had time to either drag or carry back to the British advance trench three wounded men before Russian fire became so heavy that venturing openly on the battlefield would be near suicide. Undeterred by the bullets and cannonballs now flying around liberally, she elected to work in a more covert way, crawling out of the advance trench and making her way to wounded men by using ground cover as much as possible. She used for the first time that day a special type of sling made of tough canvas that allowed her to drag behind her a wounded man while she crawled or went on her hands and knees. Once close to the advance trench, either nurses or soldiers would rush to her and take her wounded patient to safety. She kept to this routine all day and night, working as long as she could find men still alive that could be rescued and retrieving in the process a total of 57 wounded British soldiers.

Jeanne was taking a much needed short rest in the advance trench when, at around three O’clock in the morning, the Redan bastion blew up in a mighty series of powder magazines explosions, showering the whole area around it with debris, dirt, guns and bodies. The other Russian defensive works followed suit in short order, while the buildings in Sebastopol started burning. Jeanne, like all the British soldiers around her, looked on as that hellish scene was played out. A young private standing near her in the advance trench looked on with incomprehension.

“What the hell is happening? Why are the Russians blowing up their bastions?”

“The Russians are retreating while destroying everything behind them at the same time.” answered in a quiet voice Jeanne. “The battle for Sebastopol is over.”

“Thank God!” replied the young soldier, no doubt reflecting the thoughts of most around him. He then realized something and looked at Jeanne with big eyes. “Does this mean that the war is over, madam?”

Jeanne shook her head sadly at that question.

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“No! The killing may have stopped around Sebastopol but the dying is by no means over. Only once a peace treaty is signed and the troops are back home will we be able to call this war over.”

A lot more deaths and suffering effectively happened before the war was to end. The winter of 1855/56 was a tragedy for the French Army camped around Sebastopol, as typhus and cholera ran through their camps and made its normally efficient medical system collapse under the weight of sick men. Over 53,000 French soldiers fell ill and had to be hospitalized, with over 10,000 of them dying that winter, mostly from typhus. It was a time of personal loss for Jeanne as well, with her friend Leila the Zouave vivandiėre being among the dead. On another front of the war, a combined

British/Turkish force besieged by a Russian army in Kars, in Anatolia, was forced by starvation to surrender at the end of November of 1855. In January of 1856, Austria jumped into the fray by sending an ultimatum to Russia: accept the Allies’ demands or Austria would enter the war on the side of the Allies. Diplomatic talks followed, with the war declared officially over at the signing of the Treaty of Paris on April 27 of 1856. Nearly half a million Russians soldiers had died in the war by then, along with close to 100,000 French and 22,000 British, plus over 100,000 Ottoman soldiers. It was then time for the survivors to return home.

10:32 (London Time)

Saturday, June 7, 1856 ‘A’

H.M.S. SANS PAREIL

Portsmouth harbor, England

“God, I can’t wait to set foot again on good old English soil.” said quietly Gordon while standing at Jeanne’s side on the deck of their transport ship. He had his left arm around her shoulders, while Jeanne had in her arms their son William, now eight months old. Their ship, transporting the survivors of the 8th Hussars, their horses and the regiment’s equipment, including the medical equipment and tents from their field hospital, was about to tie up at one of the quays of Portsmouth’s harbor. Eight more transport ships were also docking today in Portsmouth, carrying the cavalry units back from Crimea. Jeanne surveyed visually the port area and rested her head on Gordon’s shoulder.

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“It effectively is good to be back. I miss Paris, though.”

“We will go spend some vacation time together there, I promise.” replied softly Gordon. “Then, we will start our agreed on routine.”

He didn’t have to say what that routine was, as they had spent days talking about it during the sea trip to England. Since Gordon realized how important Jeanne’s work with her charity foundation in Paris was and since he would anyway be stuck most of the time on duty inside the regimental garrison in Winchester, they had decided to live their respective lives during week days and join up in Gordon’s London house on weekends.

Seeing Mary Seacole looking despondent by the ship’s bulwark, Jeanne excused herself with Gordon for a moment, leaving little William in his care, then went to see the portly black woman. Jeanne already knew what was troubling Mary and patted gently her left shoulder while speaking reassuringly to her, using the nickname everyone used with her.

“You have nothing to worry about, Mother: I am ready to vouch and cover for your debts.”

Mary Seacole looked sharply up at her, surprised.

“How do you know about my debts, Jeanne?”

“It wasn’t too hard to learn about them, Mother. You did get stuck with a large unsold inventory from your establishment in Balaklava at the end of the war, with clients evaporating quickly then. I will be most happy to help you now.” Tears came to the face of the Jamaican woman, who kissed Jeanne on the cheek.

“Jeanne, you are truly an angel. I will owe you for the rest of my life.”

“You owe me nothing, Mary, apart from your friendship. I couldn’t do less for you. Do you have funds for your trip to London and for your stay there?”

“Some.” said Mary after a short hesitation. Jeanne raised an eyebrow at that and, taking Mary’s arm, gently guided her to a deserted corner of the ship’s deck.

”Some doesn’t cut mustard with me, Mary. I don’t want such a good woman as you living like a pauper in London. You deserve much better. Until I could meet your creditors and erase your debts, please take this as your pocket money for the next month.”

Mary eyed briefly the small but heavy purse Jeanne just put in her left hand, then looked up at her while trying to give back the purse.

“I can’t accept that, Jeanne! You…”

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“Yes, you can and will accept it, Mary.” said Jeanne gently but with finality. “I won’t stand for you to live in the streets, not after all the lives you helped save in Crimea. In fact, you are invited to stay at my husband’s house at 14 Belgrave Square while in London. I insist, Mary.”

Seeing that Mary was about to cry, Jeanne hugged her gently, letting her weep to her content.

“Let’s make it even easier and travel with us to Winchester Barracks. From there we will go to London together.”

“You are too good to be true, Jeanne.” said weakly Mary, still crying.

“Nothing is too good for you, Mother.”

On those gentle words, Jeanne returned to Gordon, who had been watching discreetly the exchange from a distance. She gave him a malicious smile and kissed him on the lips.

“Do you mind if I invited Mary Seacole to live temporarily in your London house, my dear husband?”

“For that woman, you could even tell her to move in for the duration, my dear Jeanne.” replied Gordon, smiling as well. “You know that I respect that woman greatly. She seemed distressed a moment ago. Is something wrong?”

”Nothing that I can’t arrange easily enough.”

Jeanne’s evasive answer seemed to satisfy Gordon, who resumed his observation of Portsmouth. He soon noticed a royal guards officer waiting on the quay where their ship was about to dock. He pointed the officer to Jeanne then.

“It seems that a royal messenger is waiting for our ship at dockside. I wonder what it is about. Do you think that my personal oracle could tell me that?”

“Your personal oracle would say that he is probably here to deliver invitations from the Queen, my dear.”

Gordon’s eyes widened at that.

“Hell, you certainly got my attention with that, Jeanne. Do you think that one of those will be for you?”

“And why would I think that, my love? I’m only a woman, remember? Women don’t count as legal persons in England…yet!”

Gordon sighed at that snide remark: it wasn’t the first time that Jeanne reminded him gently but no so subtly what she thought about British laws concerning women.

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A gangway was soon put in place between the quay and their ship and the royal messenger then came onboard. After speaking briefly with the captain of the ship, the guards officer came to Gordon and Jeanne and stopped at attention before saluting Jeanne and handing her an envelope.

“Lady Jeanne Smythe? I have this letter from Her Majesty the Queen for you.”

“Thank you very much, Lieutenant. This is quite an honor.” Smiling, the lieutenant then produced two more envelopes, presenting one each to Jeanne and Gordon.

“It is not quite all, madam. Here are invitations for both you and Captain Smythe to attend a medals parade in Hyde Park on June 26. Have a good day madam, sir.” After saluting them again, the lieutenant went to a few more Hussars present on the deck, also handing them envelopes before leaving the ship. By then, Gordon had opened his invitation card and read it.

“Hmm, this says that I am to be decorated but doesn’t say with what medal. What about your invitation, Jeanne?”

“Same here.” said laconically Jeanne, making Gordon look at the still unopened letter in her hands.

“And that letter?”

“Patience, patience, my dear!” she chided, purposely taking her time to open the Queen’s letter. Half a dozen of the Hussars nurses present on the deck rushed to her to see what she had, with Janet O’Neil being in the front ranks of the curious women.

“So, what is it about?”

“Gee, girls, don’t rush me like this!” protested Jeanne with false indignation. Janet eyed her crossly.

“We wouldn’t need to be pushy if you weren’t so slow to open this, Jeanne. Come on, put a move on it!”

“Alright, alright!” said Jeanne before opening the envelope and reading quickly the short letter in it.

“This is actually an invitation for me and Gordon from the Queen to meet her at Buckingham Palace for supper on June 26 of this year. I guess that I will have to get out my most fancy dress for that.”

“A supper with the Queen? You bloody lucky you!” exclaimed Margaret Ward, attracting a smile on Jeanne’s face.

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“Believe me, Margaret, such an invitation, while a true honor, often ends up being a most boring event, especially with all those ass-licking royal courtiers around the Queen. And you, did you get an invitation for that medal parade on the 26th of June?”

“I did, and so did Janet. We are so excited about that. We are probably going to be the first British women to be decorated for actions in a war.”

“You effectively will be.” confirmed Jeanne. “You and Janet however amply deserve that honor.”

“And you, Jeanne? Is France going to honor you as well?” asked Janet O’Neil. Jeanne then nodded slowly once at that, her expression becoming serious.

“I have a standing invitation from the President of the Republic to see him once back in France. General Bosquet passed on the invitation to me two months ago and told me that I am in line for the Medal of Honor of the President of the Republic, for repeated acts of courage and devotion on the battlefield which brought great honor to France.”

“Jeanne,” said in a joking tone Janet O’Neil, “Are you sure that your name is not Joan of Arc? You are turning into quite a heroine in France.” Janet never understood why both Jeanne and Gordon Smythe made mysterious smiles at her remark then.

10:32 (London Time)

Thursday, June 26, 1856 ‘A’

Hyde Park, London

England

Gordon Smythe, standing in the first rank of the expectant recipients assembled in Hyde Park in front of Queen Victoria, applauded like the others when a navy first mate was called forward by the Queen’s Aide-De-Camp to receive one of the first Victoria Crosses to be awarded. The Victoria Cross, or VC in short, was a new medal for outstanding gallantry created on order of Queen Victoria. It was particular in that it was open to all ranks, be they officers, NCOs or simple privates. This was a radical departure from past practices, where the lower ranks had too often in Gordon’s mind been forgotten, while their aristocratic officers got showered with honors and titles. Gordon discreetly looked at his parents, Sir Charles and Lady Carmelia, who were looking on as part of the crowd of spectators on the sidelines of the ceremonial grounds.

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He then glanced at Jeanne, standing beside Margaret Ward and Janet O’Neil at the end of the rear rank of soldiers, sailors and officers waiting for their medals. While not wearing her field outfit and equipment vest, Jeanne was dressed in a dark red riding dress and jacket, plus shiny black high leather boots that made her look in Gordon’s mind like a Cossack woman. Gordon puffed up with pride at thinking how lucky he was to have such a wife, then concentrated back on the ceremony. The Queen, sitting Amazon-style on her horse and surrounded by her family and the top commanders of the Army and the Navy, was directing personally the ceremony, with her ADC doing the shouting and passing to her the medals to be awarded. Her equerry then pinned on the recipients the medals given to him by the Queen.

The first part of the ceremony was reserved for the awarding of about twenty VCs to soldiers and officers who had performed extraordinary acts of bravery at either the battles of the Alma, Balaklava or Inkerman. To Gordon’s secret disappointment, Jeanne did not get the new award. He had wished to see Jeanne win a VC, strongly believing that she deserved one, but knew that the British establishment was not ready yet to acknowledge properly acts of courage by a woman. About an hour in the ceremony, as the Queen was distributing medals lower than the VC, Gordon heard his name being called up.

“CAPTAIN GORDON SMYTHE, OF THE 18TH ROYAL HUSSARS!” His heart suddenly pounding faster, he got to attention at once and shouted in response.

“YOUR MAJESTY!”

He then walked out of the ranks and, passing in front of the other recipients, went to a position two steps in front of the Queen’s horse before stopping at attention and saluting her. Queen Victoria, now 36 years old, nodded once and smiled gently down to him. Her ADC then read from a declaration in his hands.

“CAPTAIN GORDON SMYTHE, OF THE 8TH ROYAL HUSSARS, FOR YEARS OF DEDICATED AND BRILLIANT SERVICE AND FOR HIS UNCOMMON DISPLAY OF BRAVERY AND LEADERSHIP AT THE BATTLE OF BALAKLAVA, IS TO BE MADE A MILITARY COMPANION OF THE MOST HONORABLE AND ANCIENT ORDER OF THE BATH BY HER MAJESTY THE QUEEN.”

Blood rushed to Gordon’s head at that announcement. While not strictly an award for gallantry, the Order of the Bath rewarded service of the highest caliber and was the fourth most important order of knighthood in Great Britain. He did his best to keep a

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stoic expression as the Queen’s equerry fastened the crimson red ribbon supporting the gold and enameled white Maltese cross of the CB around his neck. To his surprise, the ADC shouted again as he still stood in front of the Queen.

“FOR HIS OUTSTANDING LEADERSHIP QUALITIES, CAPTAIN GORDON SMYTHE IS ALSO PROMOTED TO THE RANK OF MAJOR, EFFECTIVE TODAY.” The equerry then gave him a set of major’s insignias. Gordon saluted the Queen again, then pivoted to the right and walked back to his position in the front rank of recipients. Sergeant-Major James Champion, standing in the rank behind him, whispered to him as he was wheeling around to take his place.

“Well done, sir!”

“Your turn will come, Sergeant-Major.” replied Gordon. Effectively, James Champion was called forward half an hour later to receive the Distinguished Conduct Medal, or DCM, another new medal meant to reward great acts of gallantry by NCOs and junior ranks. The DCM was meant to be second only to the new VC and was thus a high level award indeed.

The part of the ceremony that Gordon was really waiting for came last, when Jeanne was called forward by the ADC.

“LADY JEANNE SMYTHE, SENIOR NURSE OF THE 8TH ROYAL HUSSARS!” Jeanne, wearing her French Legion of Honor and the Medal of Honor of the President of the Republic, on top of her Crimean War campaign medal, walked smartly out of the rear ranks and made her way to the Queen, stopping at attention in front of her horse. The crowd of onlookers broke into whispered comments as she walked forward but fell silent when the ADC, instead of reading her award declaration, gave it to the Queen. The Queen eyed Jeanne and her three medals with intense interest, smiling to her as well. In as strong a voice as she could muster, Queen Victoria then read the parchment.

“Lady Jeanne Smythe, senior nurse of the 8th Royal Hussars, demonstrated repeatedly over the course of the whole war in Crimea both unflinching dedication and utmost care to her patients. She also showed incredible bravery and heroism while providing first aid to wounded soldiers directly on the battlefield, and this on countless occasions. As a French citizen, Lady Jeanne Smythe is to be named an honorary civilian companion of The Most Honorable And Ancient Order of the Bath. Also, for outstanding acts of bravery demonstrated while treating wounded soldiers while under fire on the battlefield at the Alma, Balaklava, Inkerman and inside the Russian bastion of

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the Redan, Lady Jeanne is to be awarded the distinguished conduct medal, with three bars denoting a second, third and fourth awards. Her medal is to wear on its back the special mention ‘for the care and defense of wounded soldiers’.” As her equerry pinned the crimson red bow ribbon of the CB, then the red and blue ribbon of the DCM with three bars, Queen Victoria smiled to Jeanne, who still stood at rigid attention.

“I look forward to have supper with you and your husband, Lady Jeanne.”

“The pleasure will be mine, Your Majesty.”

Once her medals had been pinned on her, Jeanne curtsied to the Queen, then pivoted to the right and walked back into the ranks. She was followed by Janet O’Neil and Margaret Ward, who each received a specially engraved DCM. After a last speech from the Queen, the sovereign and high dignitaries left the ceremonial grounds, with the recipients then dismissed by General Simpson. Gordon lost no time in joining up with Jeanne, hugging and kissing her joyfully.

“Jeanne, you can’t know how proud I am of you.”

“Not as much as I am of you, my dear major.” she replied before kissing him on the mouth. Sir Charles and Lady Carmelia then managed to get to them through the mixed crowd of recipients and relatives and friends. More hugs, kisses and handshakes followed, with Sir Charles in particular looking as proud as a peacock as he eyed Gordon and Jeanne, standing side by side with their medals still on them.

“My God, this deserves a picture! Let me get Mister Fenton and his camera.” Sir Charles didn’t have to go far to get the photographer, as Roger Fenton was already making his way towards Jeanne and Gordon. Quickly setting up his heavy camera on its tripod, Roger Fenton adjusted his aim and grinned to the joyful couple.

“You decidedly make the most dashing couple in the whole of England. If you don’t mind, I will take three pictures of you in this pause.”

“Go right ahead, Mister Fenton.” replied Gordon. He then took and held Jeanne’s right hand for the pictures, with his parents looking on with pride. Once the pictures were taken, Fenton took his head out from under his camera’s black hood and smiled at the couple.

“May I ask what are your projects for the next few weeks, Major Smythe?” Gordon smiled and turned his head to look tenderly into Jeanne’s eyes.

“Just pure bliss, Mister Fenton.”

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British military cemetery, Delhi, India.