'The Shame and the Glory' by A L Berridge

On Friday 13th September five people squeezed past an enclosure of roadworks and stood on a pedestrian island in Waterloo Place to conduct a Remembrance Service in the rain. Japanese tourists pointed and took photographs, cab-drivers slowed and stared out of their windows, but for the most part London only glanced and walked by.

Of course they did. It wasn’t November and this wasn’t the Cenotaph, and Remembrance stops at a hundred years. Who cares about the fallen of the Crimean War?

Well, I do actually, and I was one of the five. With me were Colonel Jeremy Burnell RM, Defence Attaché to Ukraine and the Republic of Moldova, his fifteen year old son Charlie, Glenn Fisher from the Crimean War Research Society, and a former bugler of the Royal Artillery called Steve Fletcher. We were there to show we cared, and to mark the launch of an Appeal to build a proper war memorial to our war dead out in Crimea.

 I realize how fatuous that sounds – I can see it as I’m typing it. The Crimean War was 159 years ago, the men are long dead, and what possible good will it do them to stick up another chunk of stone? Perhaps the honest answer is ‘nothing’ – but in that case what’s the point of Remembrance Day? What’s the point of all the flags and ceremony at any military funeral? ‘When they’re dead they’re done with’ – is that it? Give them a decent grave, and that’s enough?

The British dead of the Crimean War don’t have decent graves. They don’t have graves at all. Many were buried in haste, but such military cemeteries as we did have were bulldozed on Khrushchev’s orders during the Cold War and nothing was left even to mark where they lay. Generals and common soldiers fared alike, and the fragments of bone still to be found scattered in the soil round Sevastopol might belong to General Cathcart (Wellington’s ADC at Waterloo), or to Captain Hedley Vicars at whose funeral an entire regiment wept, or perhaps just to a sixteen year old private who charged with the Light Brigade at Balaklava. They’re all there, lost in the dust, two thousand miles from home.

Original British cemetery at Cathcart's Hill 1855

They’re not alone, and the cemeteries of our French and Turkish allies suffered a similar fate in the dark years. But the Iron Curtain is down, Ukraine is independent and open, and everything should be different now. I knew memorials had been built and when I made a research trip to Crimea in 2011 I was very much looking forward to seeing ours. 

Here’s the Turkish memorial garden, beautifully tended by a local Crim-Tatar family employed by the Turkish government.

Here’s the French memorial complex, equally immaculately kept, and adorned with fresh flowers from the French government.

This is ours.

I probably don’t need to say how I felt when I saw it. As a historian I was shattered by the failure to honour men who had done and given so much, as a British woman I was sick with shame at this public display of my country’s neglect, but as a human being I felt I’d been kicked in the gut. I’d read these men’s letters and diaries, I’d studied their exploits and understood their privations, I’d even seen their paintings and photographs, and this was a desecration of the graves of men I knew.

I came back home with a mission, and I’ve been on it ever since. It’s been a long and frustrating journey, with door after official door slammed in my face. War dead since 1914 are properly looked after, and there is an entire Commonwealth War Graves Commission to ensure they’re respected abroad – but before 1914 is ‘history’ and nobody cares. Monuments in this country have a special War Memorials Trust to watch over them – but Ukraine is ‘foreign’ and not their concern. Military charities like the British Legion have the living to look after, and can’t be expected to extend their help to the dead. So many organizations, so many different responsibilities, but in each case there’s a loophole that allows the Crimean War to slip through. 

The only answer looked to be private enterprise, but that had been tried in the 1990s when a Colonel Ivanov of Sevastopol proposed a joint venture with donors in the UK to build the memorial I’d seen myself. Land for such a purpose is traditionally gifted to the country whose soldiers it honours, but in this case Colonel Ivanov promptly claimed it as his own, and proceeded to charge visitors even to view the monument their money had constructed. Legal wrangling dragged on for years without result, the deadlock was complete, and the cheaply built memorial had fallen inexorably into ruin. 

 But I wasn’t the only person who cared. While I was firing off letters as ‘Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells’, our Embassy at Kyiv was busy coming up with an answer. The Ukrainian government had already given us a new obelisk at nearby Dergachi, and the plan now was to expand this into a proper memorial, with a new and simple ‘Place of Contemplation’ at the original site of Cathcart’s Hill. Defence Attaché Colonel Jeremy Burnell was determined to make this happen, and was already working on the official permissions that would prevent anything like the Ivanov debacle ever happening again.

Colonel Jeremy Burnell, Royal Marines

What he didn’t have was money. Embassies have a small fund for maintenance of war graves, but nothing that could possibly allow them to build one. Jeremy could commission plans, he could work with Colonel Peter Knox of the Crimean War Research Society to obtain details of all the regiments that needed to be honoured, but beyond that he could not go.

In 2012 Major Colin Robins of the CWRS brought the two of us together. He introduced me to Peter Knox, Peter introduced me to Jeremy, and something in the air went ‘click’. Jeremy would pursue his plan through all the administrative and legal barriers - and I would raise the money.

It hasn’t been easy even getting to the starting line. This time the fundraising had to be clearly organized and funneled through official channels, but I couldn’t find a single organized body to host the Appeal. It was the same old story, that the Crimean War was in nobody’s remit, and even the very willing National Army Museum couldn’t help. The CWRS would have liked to, but their members had already lost a lot of money through the Ivanov disaster and it wasn’t right to expect them to shoulder it alone.

 It was History Girl Michelle Lovric who broke the deadlock. Sitting calmly on her balcony overlooking the Thames, she said to me gently, ‘You’re not the only writer who cares about history, you know. Why don’t you try the Historical Writers’ Association?’

Ding! I couldn’t believe I’d never thought of it before, but I went straight to the HWA Committee and of course Michelle was right. Robert Low, Manda Scott, Anthony Riches, Robyn Young, Michael Jecks, Ben Kane and Lloyd Shepherd – every of them offered promotion and support.

Their official involvement broadened the affair into a national appeal, and now it became possible for the CWRS to sponsor it as the designated registered charity. It’s the CWRS who have provided the bank account, their volunteers who’ve built the Appeal website and are informing every step we take, but it was still the little HWA who made the first move. Writers and lovers of history – people like us. 

I should have known. In my very first post for the History Girls I questioned the integrity of making a living by ‘digging up the dead’, and justified it to myself by arguing that we did it out of love. Now I know I was right, and we’re going to prove it by honouring the memory of those we are laying to rest.

That’s what I was doing last Friday. The 13th September was the anniversary of the British Fleet’s arrival in Crimea, and we chose it as the day not only to launch our Appeal, but also to pay tribute to the men whose London memorial lies bare even on Remembrance Day. 

  

We did it all. Jeremy laid a wreath for the British Embassy, Glenn laid one for the CWRS, and I laid one for the HWA. We read aloud a poem by a Red Army soldier who’d been stationed at Cathcart’s Hill in 1939, and performed Binion’s Act Of Remembrance. Steve Fletcher stood in the rain and played ‘The Last Post’ and ‘Reveille’ for men whose memorials are silent in November.

There were many years’ neglect to make up for, but when I laid the flowers on the stone it felt as if I were back in Crimea and tending those forgotten graves.

Next time I hope I will be. We’ve only just started and there’s a long way to go, but if people are kind, then one day our new memorial will be built, and we will have a full and proper service for those men whose glory Tennyson promised would never fade. 

Please, let it be so. It’s in our hands now, and in those of everyone who cares about people who lived a long time ago. Our great great grandfathers are out there – men our own grandmothers might have known, and without whom many of us wouldn’t exist. Our history is out there – a war that was futile imperial folly, but for which men fought with such courage that the Victoria Cross was struck in their honour. It’s all out there, everything that defines us. Our pride, our glory – and our shame.

You can donate to the Crimea Appeal here.

Photographs of wreath-laying by Shen Drew, whose site is here.

Steve Fletcher can be found here.

A L Berridge can be found just about anywhere except here.

Stories from along the Great Silk Road and two objects for the Cabinet of Curiosities

Theresa Breslin

We’ve had a wonderful summer - we can’t often say that it Scotland – and now it looks set to be a glorious autumn. I’m feeling very buoyant and thought that I’d include special items in this month’s post. There is a story for you and also two objects for the Cabinet of Curiosities - these give you a puzzle to solve.

But first you have to read the Blog… 

It was a big dream of mine to travel along the Great Silk Road. I’d thought about it ever since reading the adventures of Marco Polo when I was about twelve years old, and hearing my father recite Coleridge’s magnificent poem that begins:

‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

And so, injected with medically prescribed health-protecting substances, fortified by various vitamins, weighed down with a skip load of anti-diarrhoea tablets and carrying a packet of Jacob’s cream crackers (proven on my various research trips in the past to be the best sustenance for a gippy tummy), plus a large sun hat, off I went to cross the desert and travel through Uzbekistan.

Land of the Khans, of the mighty Timur, the warrior known as Tamerlane, who crushed the Golden Horde; meeting place of ancient nations and empires, with a fabulously rich history, Uzbekistan is a truly unforgettable country. From the spice market in Samarkand to the desert fortress of Khiva via the caravanserai and trading domes of Bukhara, it was crammed with breathtaking architecture, home to the most hospitable and friendly people, and bubbling with stories and legends. 

Image Copyright Scarpa

Possibly the most famous collection of anecdotes and jokes are those of  Hoja Nasreddin. 

Many countries claim to be the birthplace of this storyteller and trickster, but his tales display the natural wisdom of common folk with themes that transcend national boundaries. 

He is part philosopher, part comedian, part buffoon.

 

Often the story has a twist in the tail where the

seemingly weaker character gets the better of 

the bully or a rich or pompous person. 

Bookshops in Bukhara and the newsagent stands 

on the streets of Samarkand sell little booklets with 

selections of the many hundreds of tales attributed to him.   

Years ago I wrote a twist-in-the-tail historical story about a traveller lost in the desert which is in the collection Through Sand, Snow and Steam but the one that came to me after travelling across the Kyzyl Kum desert has a tale within a tale, part of which is based on a true and shocking story from that region. You can read On the Shoulders of Others here, or download it, free of charge.  

Image Copyright Scarpa

In one of the Trading Domes a stallholder became interested in the notebook and pen I carried. I made him a gift of them and, in return, he presented me with a tiny portrait of Hoja Nasreddin on his donkey, beautifully hand-crafted from camel skin. 

The Storytelling Sage is positioned near my desk, from where he keeps a mischievous eye on my writing. 

Finally, the puzzle of the Cabinet of Curiosities:

 

Image Copyright Scarpa

The two objects pictured are hand made from wood. They were integral to Uzbek family life as far back as anyone can recall and are still in use, mainly outwith the towns and cities. Although used separately their purpose is the same. 

You can post a Comment here or Tweet or Facebook me your ideas as to what they might be.

I'll be mightily impressed if you can work out their use without recourse to the Internet. 

I might not reply immediately. By the time this Blog is up I hope to be in Petra – probably the subject of a future post…. 

Photographs  © SCARPA

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Twitter: @theresabreslin1  

http://www.theresabreslin.co.uk/ 

LATEST BOOKS

Spy for the Queen of Scots 

The Traveller  (from dyslexia friendly publisher Barrington Stoke)

Divided City   Playscript now available.

Protection Against Witches - Celia Rees

I was visiting an old house outside Machynlleth, in North Wales, when I noticed a pair of old shoes in the hearth. The guide said that they had been found while work was being done on the fire place. Explanations as to how they had got there, or why, were vague. They had been 'forgotten'; they were abandoned because they were 'worn out'; just 'left' for no apparent reason; they'd belonged to a child who had out grown them. The shoes were worn but not unwearable. Shoes were not lightly discarded. My grandfather had a last upon which he would repair the family's shoes. The heels on the shoes were uneven. One was more worn than the other and one was built up. They were small, but not a child's shoe. They probably belonged to a small woman with one leg shorter than the other, or perhaps a deformed foot. She would have walked with a distinctive gait, favouring one leg more than the other. Such shoes are rare survivals. They were worn until they fell apart. So, why were these here? I didn't believe for a minute that they had been left, forgotten or abandoned. They had been placed in the hearth deliberately. They were an example of an apotropaic object. Apotropaic meaning having or reputed to have the power of averting evil influence or ill luck (OED); from the Greek ἀποτρόπαιος averting evil (ἀποτρέπειν to turn away, avert). These kinds of objects are usually found in old houses, above or near doorways, chimneys, or in the roof space. Shoes are common. Perhaps they belonged to someone who spent a lot of time by the hearth, tending the fire, doing the cooking, looking after the house. Perhaps she could not move far, anyway, because of her lack of mobility. Perhaps the idea was that, in death, that person would continue to protect. Seeing something like this brings alive one of the least accessible areas of history, that of folk belief, magic and, in this case, the power of witchcraft.

In the past, such belief was not just common, it was literally part of people's lives. Rather more macabre than a pair of old shoes, mummified cats were sometimes built into the fabric of buildings: above the hearth, in the chimney, between the walls. They didn't get there by accident. They were deliberately placed at entrance and exit points, or in the body of the house, put there to protect the occupants, to ward off evil, to keep the witches away. 

The witch bottle is another of the apotropaic objects sometimes found in old houses. The one seen here is a 16th or 17th century Bellarmine or Bartmann jug, so-called for the bearded face seen on the stoneware vessel. An example found in the bed of Westminster Abbey's millstream during excavations in 1904 was described its collector, Edward Prioleau Warren as:

“stoppered down with a cork; upon opening it, and washing out the contents, there was found within it…(i) a small piece of cloth or serge, formerly red, cut carefully and neatly into a heart shape, and stuck full of brass round-headed pins, each pin bent; and (ii) a small quantity of hair, ostensibly human, and small finger nail parings. I think there can be little doubt as to the nature of this deposit inside a corked jug…It is a malevolent charm, the intended victim of which was a woman, and it is perhaps permissible to surmise that the depositor and evil-wisher was of the same sex. Perhaps a maidservant who had a grudge against her mistress, and who could easily obtain the clippings and prunings of her toilet...”

His interpretation was one of malevolence, but it is just as likely to have been a counter-charm placed to ward off witchcraft. It is possible that the contents were collected from the witch him or herself, so that the bottle actually contained the witch, such as the one found in Penelope Lively's The Ghost of Thomas Kempe, or the bottle collected by Margaret Murray and now in the Pitt Rivers Museum, Oxford. 

This bottle is described as a "Small glass flask of bilobed shape, silvered over the inside and stoppered. This is reputed to contain a witch, and the late owner, an old lady living in a village near HOVE, SUSSEX, remarked, “they do say there be a witch in it, and if you let un out there’ll be a peck o’trouble."

As, indeed, happens in The Ghost of Thomas Kempe. I  don't know if Penelope Lively had this bottle in mind when she wrote the book, but I find these kinds of objects both fascinating and evocative. They suggest a deep and abiding fear of and belief in witches. They are found in all kinds of buildings, from the grandest houses, to simple dwellings which would indicate that such belief was ubiquitous. From the highest to the lowest, no-one was exempt.