The Street Philosopher Part 10

And as he rode out one bright October morning, in the hopeful days before the loss of the Light Brigade, none other than Lord Raglan had noticed Madeleine and Annabel distributing slices of fresh cheese to an artillery company. He had ridden over and accepted some both for himself and his horse. Quite charmed, the elderly commander-in-chief had praised their efforts warmly and asked their names. A couple of days later, Nathaniel had been summoned before him, and congratulated at length for possessing a wife whose beauty and grace was exceeded only by her n.o.ble generosity of spirit. Raglan revealed that he had been informed that Nathaniel had yet to be made a full colonel, despite having led his regiment into battle at the Alma. This he had remedied on the spot; and Madeleine, having been so instrumental in drawing the commander-in-chief's attention to her husband, was no longer threatened with a pa.s.sage back to England. Lord Raglan had admired her, so she would remain in the Crimea. Nathaniel's scrutiny had relaxed.

The resulting freedom was dizzying. She could meet with Richard whenever he requested it. Annabel asked few questions. Everyone else in the camps seemed to have more pressing matters to attend to than the movements of Madeleine Boyce. The cost, however, was mornings like this one. Madeleine did not feel that she was at all suited to the duties Annabel a.s.signed her.

'They do not like me,' she said weakly.

Her companion gave a short, dry laugh. 'No, my dear, I think they like you quite well enough. It is lucky indeed that your husband is not a jealous man.'

Madeleine could not help but smile at this. 'Oh Annabel, you do not know what you are saying,' she murmured.

Someone spoke her name, close by; a man with a polished voice, certainly not a common soldier. Madeleine turned to see Mr Styles, Richard's ill.u.s.trator, clad in a cap and a long black coat. He was unshaven and dirty, his face gaunt. In his hands was clasped a small notebook, open with its front cover bent back; on the exposed page, she noticed, was a sketch of a large crow, pulling at something with its beak.

'Why, Mr Styles,' she answered lightly. 'It has been some time since last we met, sir. How are you faring?'

'I am alive, Madame Madame, and persevering as best I can,' he said with a wan grin, removing his cap and closing the notebook. 'It has been a good few weeks, hasn't it? I had hoped that we would meet around the camp.'

There was something accusatory in his manner; Madeleine realised that Mr Styles believed that he had a grievance against her. 'Well, I have been very busy, sir,' she said apologetically, 'a.s.sisting my friend here.' She looked to Annabel, hoping to draw her in to the conversation and break the absolute concentration that Mr Styles had fixed upon her. Annabel, however, was fully occupied with the distribution of the broth.

'I had had hoped,' the ill.u.s.trator continued, his tone hardening a little, 'that you might seek me out, Mrs Boyce. After I rescued you, I mean.' hoped,' the ill.u.s.trator continued, his tone hardening a little, 'that you might seek me out, Mrs Boyce. After I rescued you, I mean.'

Madeleine glanced into his bloodshot eyes. The strange despair she saw there made every thought leave her mind. She hesitated uncomprehendingly. 'Sir, I do not know to what you are referring, but I-'

Mr Styles flinched as if struck. 'My rescue of you,' he broke in. 'Down by the river, during the battle of the Alma. I saved you from those Cossacks, Mrs Boyce. Do you honestly not remember?'

As he spoke, a distinct recollection returned to Madeleine: of standing with a soaked Mr Styles on the Alma's gra.s.sy bankof holding his wet, long-fingered hand between hersin the moments before she had been seized by her husband and dragged across the Heights like a disgraced child. 'Ofof course. Do forgive me.' She took a tentative step towards Annabel, who, already alerted by the aggressive volume of the ill.u.s.trator's voice, was now eyeing him watchfully. 'And I remain very grateful, Mr Styles, for what you did,' she said gently, trying to placate him. 'So much has happened since then, though, so many terrible things, that I find one cannot help'

Mr Styles was not listening. 'But I saved you saved you. You said that you would not forget it. You promised. We-' He stopped abruptly, his distress darkening to a suspicious anger. 'Cracknell has been telling you things, hasn't he? That I quailed before the enemythat I am aa worthless coward?'

Madeleine turned from him awkwardly, not knowing what to say. During their first liaison after the battle, Richard had indeed described with some relish how her handsome boy-genius, the would-be lover she admired so much, had come apart at the first sight of blood, shrivelling up like a carnation tossed onto the fire. And although vaguely aware that this was not a fair estimation, she had not challenged it.

Her wordless confusion gave the troubled ill.u.s.trator his answer. Before he could speak, however, Annabel intervened, introducing herself with loud amiability and asking him if he was the same Mr Styles employed by the London Courier London Courier.

Mr Styles lifted a hand to his brow, and spoke curtly. 'Madam, I must ask you to leave Mrs Boyce and I alone. There are certain matters that we must discuss in private, without your interference.'

There was a sudden animosity in his voice, and a presumption in his words, that made Madeleine catch her breath.

'And what matters might those be, Mr Styles?' Annabel asked, her expression still cordial but her tone now steely and resolute. She moved slightly to the side, interposing herself between Madeleine and the ill.u.s.trator.

'As I believe I told you, they are private private,' he replied with deliberate rudeness. 'I will not tell you any more than that. Now, I must ask again that you leave us.'

Madeleine's surprise quickly turned to indignation. The arrogance of the man, imagining that he had the right to demand access to her, and insult her friend so freely! She pushed past Annabel. 'Really, Mr Styles, you forget yourself! I am quite certain that I cannot think of anythinganythingmore that you and I might have to discuss. Good morning to you, sir!'

She took hold of one side of the cauldron and began to drag it away from the trenches and into the fog, in the rough direction of the British camps. Both Annabel and Mr Styles started after her, then grabbed for the cauldron, one trying to aid in its carrying, the other to halt Madeleine's progress by holding on to it.

'Please, Mrs Boyce,' Mr Styles began desperately, 'you misunderstand me most sorely. My only wish was to communicate to you how much I-'

A series of rapid notes from a nearby bugle, its precise location lost in the fog, brought them to a halt. This sharp sequence repeated, and then repeated again. Officers began to shout; a thousand men got hurriedly to their feet and reached for their weapons.

Madeleine's gaze met Mr Styles'. 'An attack,' he said. 'They're sounding an attack.'

The cauldron fell to the ground, tepid broth slopping over the side, striking against mud rather than the gra.s.s that still covered most of the ridge. Annabel saw that they had arrived at the edge of the road that connected the camps with the eastern pickets. It stretched off into the blank, infinite fog; she could not tell which direction was which. The bugles continued, with more joining the chorus. Somewhere, she could hear rifles crackling, and then the elemental sound of cannon, rolling across the ridges and ravines of the Allied lines.

'Dear G.o.d,' she whispered.

With a start, Annabel realised that Madeleine and Mr Styles had moved off into the long gra.s.s on the far side of the road. They were already only silhouettes against the fog's obliterating greyness, but she could see that the young man was trying to take Madeleine in his arms, whilst she fought against him with all her strength. Annabel reached swiftly into the cauldron and took hold of the iron ladle.

A column of greatcoated infantry loomed suddenly into view, marching along the road at the double, cutting her off from Madeleine like the carriages of a train. Annabel could not wait for them to pa.s.s. Summoning her strength, she shoved into the close ranks and began to squeeze her way through. There was much jostling and cursing, and even some laughter. An NCO shouted for the soldiers to keep up the pace. She could smell gun grease and unwashed men. Her bonnet got caught on a b.u.t.ton; she tore it off and ploughed onward with all her might.

And then she tumbled out the other side, immediately launching herself in the direction she had last seen Madeleine and Mr Styles. They were soon revealed, in much the same pose as before. Teeth gritted, Annabel drew back her arm to its full extent and swung the ladle at Mr Styles. There was a flat clang as its scooped end connected with the side of his head, and he released Madeleine with a cry. She struck him again; he slipped and fell to the floor, knocking off his cap as he brought up his arms to protect himself.

Annabel raised her ladle a third time, but a hand locked around her wrist, restraining her. She turned to see a lean civilian with a brown beard, dressed much like every other on the campaignthat is to say, like a vagrant, in a combination of old, mismatched clothes. Annabel Wade was a solidly built woman of forty-eight and no stranger to manual labour; she perceived straight away that she was a match for this person and began to strain hard against his grasp.

'Madam, please,' he said, trying to keep his footing, 'we are his colleagues, from the London Courier London Courier. Halt your attack and we will remove him.'

The man's voice was calm even in its insistence. Something in it made Annabel comply with his request. She stepped back, lowering the ladle. Mr Styles was still on the ground, dabbing at a cut on his forehead. The lean man asked him kindly if he was all right, and received only a surly grunt in response.

Voices were raised a short distance away; one was Madeleine's. Annabel whirled around to see her in another man's arms, this time a hefty fellow with a large black beard. The situation seemed to have roughly reversed, though; she was trying to cleave herself to him whilst he sought to fend her off. Sobbing, she was imploring him not to go to the front line. He replied that he had to, that it was his dutybut that she should return to the camps with all speed. Annabel realised that these two men had been following the column into battle, to report on it for their magazine.

Then Mr Styles, up on his knees now, started once again to beg Madeleine's forgiveness for his behaviour. The black-bearded man rounded on his young colleague savagely, shrugging Madeleine off and walking towards him.

'You seem truly to imagine yourself my rival,' he was saying in a low voice, 'but I'll tell you this for nothing, my lada woman like that won't even look at a man such as you. You think it's all about your pretty face, or your skill with a pen, your prospects prospects, but it's about none of these. It's about substanceand you, my lad, are a man of very little substance. Why, think of the Alma, when you cowered like an infant! You are-'

The lean man strode between them, pushing the black-beard back with some difficulty. 'Enough, Cracknell! Leave him be!'

Annabel went to Madeleine; but the girl rushed past her, eyes red and swollen, and threw herself at Cracknell, grabbing on to the cape of his greatcoat and beseeching him to come with her to safety in a manner that was painful to behold. Gathering both her slender wrists into one of his hands, he slapped her hard across the face with the other. This silenced her abruptly.

'Sir!' thundered Annabel, starting furiously towards him. 'For shame shame, sir!'

He looked around, bidding her good morning with cool self-a.s.surance. 'You must be Miss Annabel Wade. I have heard much about you. I am Richard Cracknell, the London London Courier Courier's chief correspondent. This here's Thomas Kitson, my junior.'

The lean man tipped his cap. 'Miss Wade,' he said apologetically, as if embarra.s.sed on his senior's behalf.

Cracknell sneered at the young man on the ground, who was staring down at the gra.s.s in mute humiliation, blood from the cut winding slowly around his eye. 'Mr Styles I think you've already met. Would you be so kind as to take Mrs Boyce back to the camps?' He pushed the stunned Madeleine towards Annabel. 'Come, Thomas, let us go. We have work to do. Get up, Mr Styles, for G.o.d's sake.'

Annabel caught hold of Madeleine, who seemed about to fall over, and watched as the three men retreated into the fog. Muttering a quick prayer, she eased Madeleine around and began walking her away from the escalating sounds of battle as fast as she could. If ever there had been doubt in Annabel's mind, it had been dismissed. Her new young friend, such a precious, G.o.d-given gift, was caught up in something torrid and sinful, something that would surely lead to calamity unless guidance was given. And now there had been a further revelation. The source of this evil, its originator and its protractor, was Mr Richard Cracknell.

4.

The claret was surprisingly fine, given the circ.u.mstances. Boyce looked over at Retford and Lloyd-Francis, his friends from the Artillery Division, and declared himself impressed. Both men raised their gla.s.ses, offering their congratulations for his promotion to colonel. This led to sarcastic talk about what a charitable angel Mrs Boyce had suddenly become, and some genial mockery over the richly deserved travails of men who were so foolish as to marry Frenchwomen. Boyce wore an uncomfortable grin throughout, wondering how much they really knew.

To his relief, the conversation soon turned to the pursuit of treasure. The three officers shared a strong enthusiasm for gathering up whatever choice trinkets the upheavals of war happened to scatter about them. They had, in fact, formed themselves into something of a collective to this end, in order to take full advantage of the situation. Boyce lamented that chances for acquisition were growing increasingly rare; it was, he proclaimed, as if the peninsula were becoming quite drained of its riches.

'And one has to be so d.a.m.nably careful, what with these blasted prying civilians wandering aboutnewspapermen and so forth.'

'The middle cla.s.ses know nothing of the right to acquire, d.a.m.n them,' Retford agreed. 'They think it so b.l.o.o.d.y charming when the common soldiery lift Russian uniforms or horses, or whatever blasted souvenirs they can lay their filthy hands...o...b..t when a gentleman's eye happens upon an antiquity, the blighters call it theft it theft. Or they bleat on about museums, about putting the object in some ghastly public gallery to be gawped at by the ignorant million...'

'It is not like the tales one hears of the Peninsular War,' Lloyd-Francis added wistfully, 'when chaps were perfectly free to wander into the local churches or mansion-houses and remove whatever they could get out through the doors.'

'My own men,' Boyce snarled, thumping his fist on the table, 'have been interrupted most grievously whilst collecting the spoils of conquest on my behalf. My best fellow was threatened with scandal by one of these wretched journalists. He was forced to abandon a statuette of Saint Catherine from the Bernini schoola fine piece by all accounts.'

'How the devil d'you know where to find that?'

'Simple intuition,' Boyce replied smartly. 'I took pains to procure a detailed map of this peninsula before we set sailone with all the notable houses and estates marked upon itand have been sending people out to investigate them as the opportunities arise.'

Retford and Lloyd-Francis exchanged a smirk. 'Well, we happen to know of a collection that won't be found on your map, Nathaniel.'

And then the real business of the evening began. Two nights before, it was revealed, a remarkably senior Russian officer had wandered into Retford's battery and proposed an arrangement. Finding the conditions in Sebastopol not to his liking, he desired safe pa.s.sage to Paris, privately arranged and undoc.u.mented. Realising that this was asking a lot in the midst of a war, he had offered something rather astonishing in return.

This officer claimed he was a n.o.bleman, a distant cousin of the Tsar no less. In peacetime, after committing some unnamed indiscretion in Moscow, he had been charged with the stewardship of Nicholas' Crimean residence, a secluded villa a few miles up the Chernaya valley. This villa had never been used, and had been deliberately kept off all maps. Nicholas maintained it as a refuge, a secret bolt-hole should he ever need to disappear from sight. Accordingly, it had been furnished to receive Royalty; but this fellow, in the languid manner of Russian aristocrats, had failed to arrange the evacuation of all of its valuables before the defeat at the Alma had driven him into Sebastopol. There was a cache still hidden in the cellars, to which he would take them if they would enable his subsequent escape to France.

'We've got him hidden in a hut round the back,' Lloyd-Francis revealed casually, 'along with the servant he brought with him. Locked in for his own safety, y'understand. He tells us his name is Gorkachov, but I think we can safely a.s.sume that it isn't.'

The artillery men went on to explain that they lacked the resources to make the necessary expeditionunlike their dear friend Colonel Boyce, who had an entire regiment of infantry at his disposal.

'This is of a different order of magnitude to your little statuettes, though, Nathaniel,' warned Retford. 'This haul would really get people talking, if what our Gorkachov says about it is true. We'll need to acquire it as cleanly as we can, and then find the quietest possible route back to England.' He paused to recharge their gla.s.ses. 'You know the Quartermaster-General, don't you? Old Wyndham? Couldn't our package find its way on to an empty transport ship, returning to Felixtowe?'

'He was at Rugby with Lawrence, my elder brother.' Boyce sipped his wine reflectively. 'But Wyndham isn't at all right for this sort of thing. Asks endless questions of anything that's not completely by the book. No: I will send men to collect this cache, and we will consider our next step when it is securely in our possession.'

'So you are on board?'

'Of course. I will do whatever is required.'

A gentlemen's agreement was thus reached, the resulting sense of mutual understanding and enterprise compelling them to make a toast, and then another, until the three fell asleep at the card-table at which they sat.

The news, brought to Boyce at around half-past five by his adjutant Lieutenant Nunn, that a ma.s.sive enemy a.s.sault was being mounted on Inkerman Ridge, and that the Light Division had been turned out to a.s.sist in its repulsion, thus came as a particularly unpleasant shock. Finding him still in his chair, Nunn shook him awake and delivered his message in an urgent whisper. Boyce was not at his best in any sense. Once upright, he insisted upon returning to his own hut to ready himself, ignoring his adjutant's protests. Whilst he slowly waxed his moustache (a difficult task due to his unusually unsteady hand), the increasingly restless young officer was made to root through his trunks and prepare his full dress uniform.

Eventually, they set off towards the front, Boyce atop his latest horse, a grey, with Nunn following on a chestnut mare. The Colonel was pleased with his appearance, despite his aching head and sweaty brow. He was glad, also, to have kept Nunn waiting. It was a good thing to show the boy some nerve under pressure, he thought; a bit of proper gentlemanly behaviour. Boyce had taken some care selecting a new adjutant after Freeman's death from fever. The Nunns were a fine old family, and this son of theirs, a tall, hulking fellow, had the makings of a fine soldier. He'd quite distinguished himself at the Alma, by all accounts, slaying upward of five Russians in the fight for the forward redoubt.

The cannon-fire suggested that a major battle was underway, the largest of the campaign so far. This could work to my advantage, the Colonel thought; a full-scale battle will provide the perfect cover for this special mission into the Chernaya valley with our friend Gorkachov. Any number of excuses could be invented to cover Wray's absence.

His satisfaction at this piece of cunning soon faded, however, as they weaved on through the fog, groping for the correct path to the front. How in G.o.d's name could the line of attack be properly maintained, he wondered, when the men wouldn't be able to see more than five yards along it? He looked down at the thick brambles through which his horse was treading with hesitant care. Rain continued to fall steadily; the left point of his moustache, he noted with irritation, was already starting to droop.

It was only when, entirely by chance, they located an improvised treatment station for the wounded that definite information on the state of the counter-attack could be obtained. A Paulton sergeant, nursing a badly broken arm, managed to relate that Major-General Codrington's brigade of the Light Division had been a.s.signed flanking duties, moving around the Sandbag Battery in an effort to wear down the advancing Russians.

'And the 99th?' Boyce enquired. 'How are we faring, man?'

'Well, sir,' groaned the sergeant, 'very well indeed. Major Maynard 'as taken charge, and is doin' great things.'

These words were purest poison to his commander. The humiliations of the Alma rushed back suddenly with excruciating force. It was half-past six. The engagement was well over an hour old, and the Paulton Rangers had been fighting for all of that time. By any standards, their Colonel was rather late. Barely pausing to ascertain his bearings, Boyce set off into the fog once more.

'Not again, d.a.m.n him,' he swore, spurring his grey. 'This will not will not happen again.' happen again.'

They soon came to the lip of a long slopethe top of Inkerman Ridge. Boyce could now see a handful of dead soldiers sprawled out on the ground before him, their torsos split open by shards of shrapnel, the steaming blood and spilling organs luridly colourful in the morning gloom. The acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air, laced with the sickening stench of disembowelment. Cannon-b.a.l.l.s had ploughed deep grooves into the ground, overturning gra.s.s and uprooting bushes. Ahead, alarmingly close, there was a dense rattle of musketry, and another, and a horrible scream; artillery boomed away in the distance, followed a second later by the shrieking whistle of shot. These sounds, bad enough on the clear afternoon of the Alma, had an additional, disorientating terror when heard through an obfuscating blanket of fog.

But Boyce was not about to hesitate. 'To battle!' he cried, drawing his sword and riding down the slope. Lieutenant Nunn fell in a few yards behind him.

The sight that met them as they rode down this slope to the Sandbag Battery, however, smashed this brisk soldierly resolve like a cobblestone thrown through plate gla.s.s. Boyce's grey stopped dead, snorted loudly in alarm, and took a couple of steps backwards. Nunn's horse had to swerve to avoid him. The fog had lifted slightly as they descended, revealing numbers of Russians that were beyond all estimation. They stretched away endlessly, their grey coats blending with the sea mist so that after a few yards, only their beards, their muskets and the black bands around their caps were visible. And they were advancing fast through the brushwood, screaming like devils as they swarmed forwards. Most did not stop to fire, but levelled their bayonets and went straight for the charge.

It was immediately clear that the British, as well as attempting the impossible task of defending against a ma.s.sed a.s.sault on open ground, were overwhelmingly outnumbered. The infantrymen clung to improvised positions formed behind bramble thickets and rocks. Men were crashing together with enormous force, grappling and stabbing frantically, squirming as they tumbled down into the mud below.

'Christ above!' shouted Nunn, ''tis far beyond the Alma!'

Boyce, also, was taken aback by the savagery of the fighting. This was not war as he had been taught to understand it. Tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword, he made himself think of the Iron Duke at Waterloo; of Lord Marlborough at Ramillies; of the bold barons at Agincourt; of the mighty burden of tradition, of honour, that weighed down upon the well-born Englishman when he took to the field of battle. He visualised a pantheon of great generals looking upon him from their celestial thrones, gimlet eyes gleaming, waiting for evidence of his military distinction. Pursing his lips, he made himself ride onward.

He could see from shako-badges and facings that men from a number of different regiments, from different divisions even, had become mixed together. There were none from the 99th here. And where were the lines? he wondered crossly, finding a reliable focus for his anger. Where were the formations? And where, most importantly perhaps, were the d.a.m.ned officers? There was just a vast scrum of struggling, yelling bodies. It was difficult to know what to do.

Nunn dismounted and allowed his mare to flee into the fog. He was trembling hard. Boyce watched as he drew his revolver and his sword, and closed his eyes to pray. A moment later he was heading towards the battle.

'Mr Nunn!' Boyce roared. 'Where the devil d'ye think you're off to?'

The Lieutenant stopped. His large, simple face showed complete mystification. 'To fight, sir.'

'To fight fight, sir? What, alongside the common soldiers, and against that rabble? Hardly behaviour befitting a gentleman officer, Mr Nunn!'

'Colonel?' Nunn was confused, and humbled by his confusion.

Boyce lifted up his chin, as if displaying his profile to a suitably expensive portrait-painter. 'A man of breeding will only engage his equal. If you are to progress in the service, you would do well to remember that. We are here to lead, not to fight. Now, follow me!'

The Colonel's grey set off westwards, trotting roughly parallel to the ragged, constantly shifting British positions, with Nunn stumbling behind. The lost Sandbag Battery was just visible through the drifting fog. After fifty yards or so, Boyce heard his adjutant calling his name. He pulled on the grey's reins, turning impatiently.

Nunn was pointing urgently. 'Major Maynard, sir! Over yonder!'

Maynard was surrounded by a sizeable crowd of British soldiersthe larger part of three companies, made up from the 99th and a couple of other regiments. Face and greatcoat streaked with mud, he was standing up on a rock, his back quite straight, bellowing orders to the men around him and pointing with his sword. They had just beaten back a Russian charge. The ground immediately before them was covered with the dead and dying from both armies.

'I want two firing lines! Come on, make yourselves busy! Two lines, now!' The soldiers did their best to follow his directions, fanning out across the pocked terrain. 'Don't look for targets, you won't find any. Just shoot into the fog.'

Peering ahead, Maynard could just make out the Russians. No individual men could be distinguished, but a barrier of shadow out in the mists told him where they stood. They were rallying for another a.s.sault. As if in antic.i.p.ation, some of them had started up their battle cry, an oddly high-pitched, disturbing noise.

'First line, fire!' he shouted. The row of minies let off their stuttering discharge, and there were cries out in the fog as the bank of shadows was suddenly rearranged; then the second line, with practised precision, moved through the first, who now scrabbled to reload. 'Second line, fire!'

Where there had been movement a few moments earlier, there was only stillness. Some twenty seconds pa.s.sed. The charge did not come.

'Hold your fire! Stand down!' Maynard ordered, stepping from his rock. 'Save your bullets, men, they've had enough for now. The Bear will need a tot or two of his vodka before he tries that one again.'

There was some weary laughter. 'Could use a spot of that meself, Major!' piped up Private Cregg, who was in the second line, as he packed a fresh cartridge down into his rifle barrel.

Captain Wray, in place somewhere down to the left, started screeching for quiet, promising the lash to all and sundry. Hardly a potent threat, Maynard thought, to men presently under bombardment by heavy artillery.

The sight of Boyce approaching the lines on his grey actually brought Maynard some relief. Here at last, he thought, is someone with the rank to authorise what so plainly needs to be done. 'Good to have you with us, Colonel,' he said with a salute, nodding at Lieutenant Nunn. 'The situation is growing ever more serious. There is a quite desperate need for-'

'You are not fighting fighting, are you, Major?' Boyce interrupted, looking down at the blood on Maynard's sword. Maynard hesitated, unsure how to respond. Boyce sighed long-sufferingly. 'No matter. Make your report, if you please.'

'As I was saying, Colonel, the enemy has been pressing this sector quite relentlessly. This is a terrible position, sirwe're exposed to the Russian cannon here, and-'