Good morning! it's been a long time, and I'm sorry about that. This one has been fighting me all the way. it must have taken me nearly two months to write, I'm afraid! As you know, I started writing it when I was without a computer because it was a germ of an idea I had, and I thought, if it never gets anywhere, no problem. But I managed to wrap it, and I also went back and linked it to the Brandon Scandals, to be a prequel to more Brandons of America.
Anyway, a lass who volunteers to nurse with Miss Nightingale in the Crimea is abducted by a Cossack for his wounded men, he being a renegade against the Russians [Russki idi nakhoj!] which sort of seemed appropriate. After various adventures, they get wed, and have a few more adventures, which is a lame sort of blurb, sorry. I'm out of my comfort zone with Victorian, which is why I stuck to what I know with Slava Kozacki. I hope you enjoy it.
Chapter 1 October 1855
It was always a grim business searching the battletfield for the wounded. Normally the troops did it, but Jane Conway was in trouble with Miss Nightingale again. Volunteering for the duty got her out from under the eagle eye of ‘The Lady with the Lamp’ for a while.
“Lady with the Lamp, lady with eyes like a gimlet,” muttered Jane. It was apparently forbidden to comment on an unconscious lieutenant that if he regained his wits, nobody would be able to tell the difference in nine out of ten junior officers. Jane had come to the conclusion that officers killed more men than the Russians, and the biggest Tatar in the Crimea was Miss Nightingale.
Not that she regretted being swayed by Miss Nightingale’s rhetoric to become a nurse; it really was a calling to help the sick and wounded. And Jane was descended from the Brandons of Suffolk, who went their own way, and whose unofficial motto was ‘Dare to be different.’
Then someone seized Jane’s wrist from behind, and she wondered suddenly if she had been captured by a real, genuine Tatar as she turned to see a wild-looking man with a fur hat and braided coat, and magnificent moustaches.
"English, yes?" he asked, sweeping off his hat in a deep bow, revealing a shaven scalp but for one scalp-lock.
"Yes," said Jane. "Are you a Tatar?"
He threw back his head and laughed, his long dark scalp-lock bobbing as his dark face crinkled in amusement.
"I'm a Cossack," he said. "You come; you nurse our wounded."
"Miss Nightingale wouldn't like that," said Jane. "Why, we sleep in dormitories to stop us meeting men, so our mothers know our reputation to be unsullied."
He flashed her a very white grin.
"I'm not asking her, she doesn't have to like it. I give you guarantee," he said. "If any man places lewd hands on you, I kill him. We need a nurse."
"C... can you not bring your wounded to the hospital?" she asked.
He shook his head, and his moustaches - they grew in ringlets which Jane envied - danced.
"I am afraid some will die if they are moved. You are sworn to save life, yes?"
"I... yes. I... I should let someone know."
"You will come with me. I will let them know."
Jane dithered.
"I'll probably be sent home for insubordination," she said.
"They have to get you back first," he grinned with very white teeth in what Jane was realising was a very handsome face, like chiselled wood, burned tan with exposure to the elements. He towered over her, and her eyes were on the level of the crucifix which hung over his embroidered shirt.
"Are you abducting me?" she asked indignantly.
He laughed.
"Will it make it easier for you with your formidable leader if I was?"
"I... actually, yes," said Jane, wondering why her knees felt weak.
"Then I am," he said.
"Will someone deliver a note for me? I need to let Miss Nightingale know that I am in good health and that I will need bandages, salves, dressings, soap, and a couple of changes of clothing."
"And if she won't give such things to us?"
Jane stared.
"Surely any healer... well, if she will not, you will have then the list of things to acquire from her stores. Or, as Miss Nightingale calls it, when she has us do the like, 'requisition.' It sounds nicer than 'stealing' for to protect her patients she will do anything. I cordially detest her, but I do admire her."
He laughed again.
“No-one need be liked to command, as long as he – or she – is respected,” he said.
“She has a low opinion of the training of the brains of most girls,” said Jane. “Justly, I fear, since little is expected of women, at least women of the middle and upper classes, and one might get out of the habit of rational application of logic, such as comes naturally to a child. Even if only to use casuistry to avoid punishment. We are supposed to be creatures of emotion, and rationality and logic supposed to be alien to our nature. I never was infected by that, because on the whole I educated myself from Papa’s library. But Miss Nightingale rails that not one woman is suitable to be her secretary, not knowing the names of the senior officers, nor Cabinet Ministers, nor knowing where to look them up. But the truth is, the few of us who are capable did not apply, not wanting to be under the lash of her tongue all day.”
“Ah, a fault in a leader, to find fault only, and not to praise,” said the Cossack. “Come; you ride, of course?”
“I do ride,” said Jane. “What should I call you?”
“My title is ‘Ataman;’ it’s a title meaning ‘leader’ or ‘little father.’ My name is Dmitro Levchenko.”
“I am Jane Conway, and my title is ‘nurse.’ Oh!” he had led her over a fold in the ground, to where two horses waited, invisible until one was almost upon them. “I... I have never ridden in a male saddle.”
“It is easier and safer than a female saddle, though you may use the saddle horn if you please; it is what we use for riding tricks.” He sprang lightly into the saddle in one movement, and then turned to hook a leg over the exaggerated horn to ape sitting side-saddle; and with a grin, swung to face backwards, sprang to stand in the saddle, and then turned in a leap to drop down into a riding position.
“Mount up,” he said. “You will get used to it.”
Jane was horrified, and found tears of mortification springing to her eyes.
“I... I do not know how to mount without a mounting block or a groom to aid me,” she cried.
“What, are you so feeble?” he wondered.
“Call me feeble when you have nursed a man through fever for two and a half days round, without break save to drink and relieve yourself,” Jane snapped. “I have never been taught to mount as you mount, or even as a gentleman in England mounts. You will have to help me until I learn.”
He came off the saddle again, easily, and before she might guess what he was about, picked her up by the waist, effortlessly lifting her high enough to deposit her on the back of the beautiful golden horse he had brought for her, as if she was a child. There was at least plenty of ease in the plain dark grey skirt of the dresses the nurses wore, and she was glad that she did not show an immodest amount of leg. She was glad, too, that the uniform most strictly did not include a crinoline.
“You will learn, but I have not the time now,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” said Jane, who was blushing at the feel of his hands, which she could still imagine at her waist through the very light corset the nurses wore for support of the spine more than to produce a fashionable shape.
“If you were not taught, you need not apologise. I will teach you. You will teach me nursing. A fair exchange.”
She nodded, and touched her heel to her horse to fall in a little behind him as he led, the position unfamiliar and not comfortable, banging against the saddle as the horse trotted.
He turned, some sixth sense aware that she was not happy. Or perhaps, thought Jane, aware that her horse was not happy with her.
“When you trot, you should rise and fall, Lady, with the motion of the horse,” he said. “Or you will hurt the horse and yourself both.”
It took a little while to manage properly, but then, it was much easier.
“Thank you,” said Jane. “Where did you learn English?”
“My father was part of Lord Lieven’s bodyguard when he was ambassador in England. He learned, and he taught me, in case I had the same opportunity. It is an opportunity, but not one I want. My father hated England. Not for the people, but for the number of them.”
“Why is that?” asked Jane.
“He felt breathless, enclosed, with so many people living so close together,” said Levchenko. “He said there is not one village in England which is not within a league of another village or town. Can that really be so?”
“A league... three miles... yes, that is so,” said Jane. “It is to do with how far one may reasonably walk with goods or beasts to market, I think, for there being no point having a village when one cannot go weekly to market.”
He laughed.
“As Napoleon said, a nation of shopkeepers. In my homeland one may ride all day in some directions and see no settlements. The steppe is wide, and the sky a vault of heaven, more glorious than any church dome man may build.”
“That is almost frightening, to be so alone,” said Jane. “And yet, I hate to be confined. I had a nurse, once, who would shut me in a cupboard for my transgressions, until my mother found out, and fired her. Then, I fear, I ran wild.”
“I would expect serious transgressions for such harshness,” he said.
“So Dorothy thought. I remember bringing frogspawn to show her, and tripping so it went in her lap, and she was more concerned about her dress than the poor little unhatched tadpoles,” said Jane. “And I used to release mice from the traps, for I could not bear them suffering. I know now that they spread disease and spoil food, but I was but four summers old.”
“A cruel woman, this nurse,” said Levchenko. “I wager you would have preferred a beating.”
“Yes,” said Jane. “Though Papa does not whack hard.
“One you will be treating has wounds from a cruel punishment,” said Levchenko, abruptly. “They... the Russians... do not let us have our own senior officers, and put Russians over us, and he thought one of my men was impudent when he was asking clarification. He had him flogged with the knout. Do you know what that is?”
She shook her head.
“No, I have never heard of it.”
“It is the judicial punishment of choice of Russian noblemen. It is two pieces of hardened leather, linked together, and fifty or more lashes can kill a man, often by breaking his spine,” he explained soberly. “Kyril received almost two dozen before I was able to run back to my tent and grab my rifle to shoot down the big ape the officer had using the knout, and the officer himself. We... we are renegades, on the run from both sides, for your British soldiers will take us as enemy also.”
“You could seek asylum in Britain....”
“No, we will not leave our own land. When we return to it from this land of Tatars. It will be forgotten eventually, but for now, everyone’s hand is against us.”
“Forgotten?”
He shrugged one shoulder.
“We all look alike to them. There will be other uprisings, and they will hang a renegade and think they have us all. And they will want us to die for them in some other war.”
“It sounds terrible. If they need you as troops, can you not band together to take back your own lands from them?”
“Ah, banding together is our problem. And I fancy it is too late for that. But we can retain our identity as Cossacks, not as Russians.”
Presently, they entered light woodland, and Levchenko imitated a woodcock’s cry. It was echoed, and a Cossack materialised as if from nowhere. He spoke urgently.
Levchenko turned to Jane.
“So, you have two urgent cases, two bad, and a number of light wounds,” he said. “Kyril has lost consciousness, and one of my men has a bullet in him and is delirious.”
“Send ahead to tell them to get me boiling water, I will need it to sterilise dressings, needles, cat gut and tweezers, and I may need near-boiling water to poultice,” said Jane, crisply. “Oh dear. Is... is this where I am to work?”
A clearing was surrounded by rude shelters made of mostly pine branches. They were little more than half-roofs built to cover an area, some with canvas or some other cloth over the branches, mostly repelling the early snow. It was an earlier onset of winter than Jane was used to, though the daytime was moderately clement. The men, seeing her uniform under her coat, the dress covered with a crisp white apron, and her starched cap, raised a cheer. That was heartening.
Levchenko was barking orders, and led Jane to one of the rude huts, which had some pretences at walls as well as its low roof. It appeared to have been designated as the hospital, and the men lay on piles of hay, with blankets on top.
“You must work with what we have,” he said, roughly. “We made camp as best we might, being without supplies.
“It’s clean, anyway,” said Jane, who noticed that the floor had been swept, and the sheets and blankets seemed cleanly.
“We like to be clean. We use sweat baths weekly, and wash our hands and faces daily, and our hands when they are soiled and before eating,” said Levchenko.
“Good; your wounded might live,” said Jane. “If wards are not clean, a man may survive the shock of surgery, only to succumb to the evil miasmas of sick-room air getting into his wound, causing sepsis. I warn you, though, I have never taken out a bullet.”
“Have you seen it done?”
“Yes; I have assisted at surgery, handing instruments to the surgeon, but I would be forbidden to do surgery in an English hospital. Even though I have assisted my uncle who breeds horses and is his own horse doctor. I know more about surgery on horses.”
“That’s good enough for me; you have more experience and knowledge than any of us.”
“I cannot like the hay in here,” said Jane.
“Little girl, what’s the good of saving a man from the miasmas of the air to have him die of cold? You have no idea how cold it can get here, do you? Each wounded man has a volunteer to sleep beside him, both to help him with his bodily needs, and to help keep him warm. Even so early in the season, it is cold at night. And you....”
“I will sleep in the ward on hay.”
“You’ll freeze. Do you trust me to lend my body warmth?”
“Yes, of course; you gave your word,” said Jane, blushing. “Now show me Kyril.”
“This is Kyril, here.” The man was on his front, moaning feebly. Levchenko removed the blanket over him, held off his back by sabres thrust into the ground beside the rough bed. Jane gasped.
“What kind of... of barbarian can do this to another man?” she cried, in shock. The man’s back looked like steak which had been tenderised, thick clots of blood along the edges of black, purple and reddish stripes where the knout had fallen. She heard the word, ‘Russki’ muttered with hatred. “Is the water boiled, yet?” she asked. Two men carried in a large cooking pot. Jane scooped some into the lid to put her instruments in, and soaked a cloth in the water, letting it cool, before she gently bathed the abused back, eliciting a scream from the unfortunate Kyril.
“Muscles torn into, but not into the kidney or liver. I believe our men are given a leather apron to protect those organs if they are flogged,” said Jane. “There is sepsis here; I cannot think this... knout... was very clean.”
“Lady, it was well-coated with dried blood from dozens of whippings,” said Levchenko.
“I have a stub of candle in my satchel; please light it,” said Jane. “I will cup the regions which look to be most filled with pus as the gentlest way of doing this. It will draw it out, and cause least shock to Kyril.”
The men watching murmured as the heated cupping-glasses in Jane’s medical kit drew forth yellow ooze as they pulled at the skin. Kyril whimpered gently. Then Jane spread salves onto the horrible mess that had been a man’s back, and covered it with a square of linen.
“This should be changed twice daily, but I do not have enough salves or bandages,” she said. “I can improvise with honey...”
“But we have nothing, I fear,” said Levchenko.
“Then I will write now to Miss Nightingale, and your messenger might get there while it is still light,” said Jane. “And he can bring back what I need, with her good will or without it.”
