Carmichael was foremost in the polite laughter as the brigadier damned—as infantrymen always do—the artillery.
The thirty or so officers, no two of them now dressed alike except for their stained red coats, crept up the rocky fissures on the lip of the great Careening Ravine that led right down into the heart of the city and the bay that was cleverly adapted to allow Russian warships to have their keels cleaned there. The ravine itself was deep and sinuous, its sides rocky and steep and it served as a perfect, natural delineation between the Left and Right Attacks. The autumn sun still shone intently and as they stalked forward the band of Morgan’s cap and the too-long hair at the nape of his neck became very wet. He longed to pull at his water-bottle.
The officers stumbled around the st
