The Street Philosopher Part 16

The rasping panic in his voice made Kitson smart with guilt. The junior correspondent had left the Courier Courier team two weeks after Inkerman, in the wake of the great storm that had sunk the team two weeks after Inkerman, in the wake of the great storm that had sunk the H. M. S. Prince H. M. S. Prince and so many of the other vessels moored in Balaclava harbour. In his desire to help the injured and to restore order to the decimated port, however, Kitson had entirely neglected a more immediate responsibility. It was true that they had disregarded him when he had first proposed that Styles be shipped back to England; the ill.u.s.trator himself had stated quite unequivocally that he was fit for service and wished to remain in the Crimea. But he should not have been halted by that. He should have written to the boy's father. He should have convinced someone in the army, or one of the surgeons he became acquainted with in Balaclava, to make some kind of interventionMr O'Farrell be d.a.m.ned. There was no excusing his failure to do any of this. It was not too late, though, to start making amends. and so many of the other vessels moored in Balaclava harbour. In his desire to help the injured and to restore order to the decimated port, however, Kitson had entirely neglected a more immediate responsibility. It was true that they had disregarded him when he had first proposed that Styles be shipped back to England; the ill.u.s.trator himself had stated quite unequivocally that he was fit for service and wished to remain in the Crimea. But he should not have been halted by that. He should have written to the boy's father. He should have convinced someone in the army, or one of the surgeons he became acquainted with in Balaclava, to make some kind of interventionMr O'Farrell be d.a.m.ned. There was no excusing his failure to do any of this. It was not too late, though, to start making amends.

Kitson rose to his haunches, looking along the trench. 'Where is Cracknell?' he asked tersely. 'Is he close by?'

It had long been his suspicion that the letter the senior correspondent had written to O'Farrell about Styles' condition had been inflected to make the whole business seem like the womanish hysteria of his over-sensitive junior rather than anything warranting genuine concern. Kitson found that he now actively wanted to see Cracknell againto confront him about Styles.

The ill.u.s.trator made no reaction to his question. 'The boots,' he muttered morosely, 'twitching like... like hen's feet. And I can hear that sound. I can hear it right now, as I speak. Dear Christ, all these blessed bodies bodies, Kitson, I don't know how I canhow I will-'

Kitson looked at him. 'Robert, listen to me. I am deeply sorry that I left you, and must ask your forgiveness. But do not despair, my friend. We will get you home, I promise. As soon as I can arrange it.'

Styles fell quiet, tucking his drawing-book away in his coat pocket; then, without warning, he stamped on the icy puddle at the base of the trench, sending a long crack running between the dead private's blue lips. 'No,' he said with hard, miserable resolve, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. 'No, I cannot leave. What is there in England for me? I have given up everything to come here, everything. Like you, Kitson. We are the same in this, are we not? Could you you just go back?' just go back?'

Kitson had tensed. 'No, but-'

'I must continue to work. I must see the truth of war. I must capture it capture it, don't you see? I cannot leave.' Styles stamped on the puddle again. 'And what would he say if I left? He would say I am a weaklinga coward coward. I am not not, Kitson. I did what was necessary in thatin that cave.' His hands began to shake, as if his anguish and his confusion were about to boil over once more; then he picked up the rifle that stood next to him and his fragile self-control was retained. 'II have shown my courage since, also, out here. In ways that he has not. That he could not could not.'

Kitson took a breath, looking up at the moon. Cracknell, he realised, was nowhere near the advance parallel that night; Styles was there alone. There was something about the way the ill.u.s.trator held the rifle that alarmed him. He could not help but think that it was done with an ease brought about by usage. Styles had wielded a minie before. Had he not just claimed to have proved himself not only in the cave, when he smashed a rock into the skull of a boy-soldier, but also here in the advance parallel? It could not be avoided: Robert Styles, student of the Royal Academy, supposed ill.u.s.trator for the London Courier London Courier magazine, had been fighting, and in all likelihood killing, alongside the enlisted men. magazine, had been fighting, and in all likelihood killing, alongside the enlisted men.

He decided to concentrate upon a modest goal. 'Robert, let us leave this trench, at leastgo somewhere warm and find some supper. You must be-'

'And yet he mocks me still, whenever I see him. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d mocks me me. That awful, rotten b.a.s.t.a.r.d b.a.s.t.a.r.d.' With each word, he hit the ice at his feet with the b.u.t.t of the minie. 'He thinks he can still lord it over me because of his grubby affair with Mrs Boyce. But how could I care about that now? I do not care. I have shown my courage out here. That b.a.s.t.a.r.d b.a.s.t.a.r.dI've shown my courage.'

Styles' speech degenerated into an embittered, vicious mumbling. He struck at the broken ice with greater force, a shard disturbing the stiffening neck of the dead soldier, making his head jerk hideously.

'Come, Robert,' said Kitson with a forceful joviality he most definitely did not feel, 'let us go back to the camps and have a tot of brandy. Haven't you had enough of this mud, my friend?'

A shot sounded nearby, disturbing the still night air like an anvil tipped into a millpond. Kitson and Styles both turned abruptly. It had been fired from somewhere on the advance parallel, towards the Russian lines. Two more followed a second afterwards.

'Who's firing?' demanded an officer's voice from the direction of the forward battery. 'Stand to, d.a.m.n it, and name yourselves!'

'Hopkins, sir, and Reid, pit number three!'

'I see no attack! What the deuce are you shooting at, man?'

'It's Trodd, sir!' The soldier sounded amazed. ''E's gone over to the bloomin' Ruskis! Made a run for it!'

'Fire at will!' came the reply, louder now. 'Get that man! There are no b.l.o.o.d.y deserters in the 7th Fusiliers! Get him!'

The appearance of British soldiers, standing in their trenches or on the ramparts of the forward battery in order to take aim at their errant comrade, provoked a sudden explosion of musketry from the Russian fort. Kitson, crouched down with his hands over his head, saw to his horror that Styles was actually getting to his feet, looking out over the edge of the trench, c.o.c.king his rifle and bringing it up to his shoulder. Then, without hesitation, he fired, the sound stunningly loud; and missed, evidently, as he immediately tore open a cartridge, and unfastened the minie's packing rod, preparing to reload.

Instinctively, Kitson lunged over, pulling hard at the base of Styles' coat, causing the gunpowder to spill from the cartridge, down into the mud. The ill.u.s.trator tried to kick his attacker away, only to have Kitson grip tightly on to his right leg. They staggered to one side, splashing through the shattered slush of the puddle, straying into a shallower section of the trench. Now out in the full glare of the moonlight, they were a clear target for the marksmen over in the Russian fort. Several musket-b.a.l.l.s struck around them as the two men continued to struggle desperately with one another; then one sliced through Styles' thigh, twisting him to the ground.

Kitson took two steps back. Styles, teeth gritted, clutched at his leg. His fingers grew black with blood. 'Stay calm, Robert!' Kitson instructed firmly. 'Try to stay calm.' He walked forward, bending down to haul the injured ill.u.s.trator to cover. A thought came to him, startlingly clear: that will get that will get him evacuated him evacuated.

The first musket-ball clipped Kitson's side, whipping through his clothing and catching the base of his rib-cage. He fell forward, landing on his knees in the freezing water. His hands went to his wound; his body was soft and horribly ragged to the touch. There was no pain, nor could he tell which parts of what he felt were ripped fabric, and which were ripped flesh.

Another ball hit his back, cracking the shoulder-blade as it ricocheted away and shoving him to the bottom of the trench. The pain started to come now, intoxicatingly, dizzyingly intense, beyond any expression. Kitson found that he could no longer move, that his legs were gone, and his arms lay useless. His eyelids dipped down, then snapped back open, then dipped down again; above, the white moon shone on blankly. Styles was pulling himself, grimacing, into the shadow of the trench wall. There was more shooting, but the sounds grew distant, floating over faintly from a remote, nightmarish land.

3.

So much for the grand adventure! To the four winds with the n.o.ble patriotic enterprise! After the missed opportunities of the Alma, the patriotic enterprise! After the missed opportunities of the Alma, the terrible butchery of Inkerman, and the myriad agonies of a disastrous terrible butchery of Inkerman, and the myriad agonies of a disastrous winter, this correspondent can state with absolute truth that winter, this correspondent can state with absolute truth that there are now not ten officers in any division who would not be there are now not ten officers in any division who would not be delighted at the chance of getting away from the Crimea. delighted at the chance of getting away from the Crimea.

Lord Raglan must carry much of the blame for this state of affairs. He, and those wretched men who follow his example, carry themselves He, and those wretched men who follow his example, carry themselves about as if the disintegration of their army was, in truth, an about as if the disintegration of their army was, in truth, an awful bore, and not worthy of their attention; much less as if it was awful bore, and not worthy of their attention; much less as if it was the direct result of their incompetence. Our old friend Colonel Boyce the direct result of their incompetence. Our old friend Colonel Boyce is, of course, prominent amongst this number. They have their warm is, of course, prominent amongst this number. They have their warm houses, and their servants, and do not like to go out in bad weather houses, and their servants, and do not like to go out in bad weather (although they have valises packed with greatcoats, fur hats and (although they have valises packed with greatcoats, fur hats and numerous other items of st.u.r.dy winter clothing); whilst their men numerous other items of st.u.r.dy winter clothing); whilst their men stand out in the snow, all but abandoned by our wretched stand out in the snow, all but abandoned by our wretched Commissariat, trying to sew their boots back together with lengths Commissariat, trying to sew their boots back together with lengths of their own hair. of their own hair.

The word in the camps, amongst both officers and the common soldiers, is that Lord Raglan seems to take it precious easy. He is soldiers, is that Lord Raglan seems to take it precious easy. He is not often seen amongst the men of the lineand during those rare not often seen amongst the men of the lineand during those rare outings, the privates regard him with confusion, not having a clue outings, the privates regard him with confusion, not having a clue who he is, whilst the officers run away in order to avoid having to who he is, whilst the officers run away in order to avoid having to salute him. Such is the feeling in the British Army as 1855 begins salute him. Such is the feeling in the British Army as 1855 begins its grim progress! its grim progress!

Cracknell took a swig of coffee and a long pull on his cigarette, flicking the ash over the side of the bed on to the floor; then he drew a line under the text, and beneath wrote 'Forward camp of the Light Division, 23rd January 1855'. Yawning hugely, he reached under the covers to scratch his crotch. The very top of the tent was touched with sunlight. His pocket-watch read six o'clock: the day was beginning. He finished the cigarette and swung his legs out of the cot, lowering his feet into his boots, which stood open and waiting on the floor.

The tent was wickedly cold. Frost laced the stones of the ruined shed in which it was pitched. Among the many things claimed by the great storm of the previous November had been the Courier Courier team's comfortable little hut. The winds had brought it down in a matter of minutes, exposing them to a screaming tornado of flying camp detritus. After gathering what they could catch of their fast-vanishing belongings, they had embarked upon an urgent search for shelter. It had led them to this dilapidated, roofless structure; soaked and shivering, they had crouched down gratefully in its filthy corners. team's comfortable little hut. The winds had brought it down in a matter of minutes, exposing them to a screaming tornado of flying camp detritus. After gathering what they could catch of their fast-vanishing belongings, they had embarked upon an urgent search for shelter. It had led them to this dilapidated, roofless structure; soaked and shivering, they had crouched down gratefully in its filthy corners.

Once the storm had abated, Cracknell had slung a foraged standard-issue army tent over it, making what he considered to be a rather homely little place, with a st.u.r.dy stone perimeter that would offer some measure of protection from any further extremes of weather. Also, the foundations of the shed enabled them the luxury of private berths in what had once been livestock pens, each with a canvas curtain set across its entrance. But had he received any kind of thanks from his so-called colleagues for his ingenious labours? Of course he b.l.o.o.d.y well hadn'tand neither of the useless, ungrateful rascals had spent more than a handful of nights in it.

Cracknell walked from his bed-alcove into the central area of the tent, looking to the small charcoal stove on which he had brewed his coffee. It had gone out. He kicked the thing over with a violent exclamation, scattering soot across the earth floor. Wrapping his fur coat (a recent acquisition, not overly greasy) around him, and putting a wool cap upon his head, the senior correspondent searched about for something to eat. All he could find was a small piece of military-issue biscuit. In the middle of the tent was a crude writing desk fashioned from packing crates, its surface covered with his papers. Sitting at it, he nibbled on the rock-hard biscuit, took a soothing swallow of rum from his hip-flask, and surveyed the report he had just completed.

There were some fanciful sections, he had to admit; the occasional paragraph where a light patina of exaggeration, a laminose layer of drama, had been artfully applied. Throwing the biscuit into a corner and lighting another cigarette, he decided, as always, that this was unimportant. No names were involved, apart from those he sought to shame or disgrace. All kinds of people were talking, and saying all manner of things. And anyway, he thought with wry satisfaction, I have a reputation to encourage.

A couple of weeks earlier, O'Farrell had sent him a package from London. It had contained a long letter, the last few issues of the Courier Courier, and a thick wad of cuttings from the rest of the British press. As Cracknell pored over them, he realised his reports from the front were proving somewhat incendiarybeyond anything he had previously heard about. The Courier' Courier's circulation was soaring. Its offices were being deluged with letters of both the most expansive support and the severest censure. The impa.s.sioned debate inspired by the magazine's Crimean coverage, Cracknell learned with immense gratification, had spread to the very highest level. As Lord Aberdeen's government tottered before accusations of having mismanaged the war, radical members were quoting his words in Parliament (along with those of that weasel Russell of the Times Times) as part of their case against the Prime Minister and his Cabinet.

And these words were his, and his alone. Kitson had left himhad absconded to Balaclava to wander amongst the injured. This had been a harsh blow. He had always felt that it had been a mistake to send an art correspondent to cover a war, but with his guidance the fellow had been doing surprisingly well, easily surpa.s.sing his most optimistic expectations. Thomas Kitson had an undeniably powerful turn of phrase, and had seemed committed to his journalistic duty. He could not stay the course, though; he had let himself become distracted, and his vision muddied by inappropriate compa.s.sion. Ability is nothing, the senior correspondent reflected, without a strong, disciplined mind.

Which brought one to Mr Styles. His drawings were an ongoing disaster, an unending, unvaried procession of mutilated horses and mouldering soldiers, all of which were quite unfit for publication. O'Farrell had been adamant that he stay, however, that he be properly supervised and made to produce something more becoming a professional magazine ill.u.s.tratorto get some recompense, basically, from the Courier' Courier's poor investment. Cracknell simply couldn't be bothered to explain to him why this was a waste of time. He had more than enough of his own business to attend to. As far as he knew, Styles was still around the camps, entertaining himself in his customarily grisly fashion. Sooner or later, he reasoned, O'Farrell would give up and recall him.

Abandoned by his subordinates, Cracknell had thus stepped out from the shadow of the team to stand alone in the limelight. O'Farrell had been doubtful at first, but had soon warmed to this state of affairs and set about creating himself a celebrity. The Tory papers, Cracknell saw, had voiced an overweening hostility towards the reports of the Courier's Courier's Crimean correspondenta hostility which, as every true polemicist knew, could easily be turned to its target's advantage. A month-old article from Blackwood's had declared that this nameless personage Crimean correspondenta hostility which, as every true polemicist knew, could easily be turned to its target's advantage. A month-old article from Blackwood's had declared that this nameless personage flings his censure about wildly and flings his censure about wildly and without reason, stabbing left and right like a Malay under the influence without reason, stabbing left and right like a Malay under the influence of opium, or a Red Indian on the warpath, with his bloodied of opium, or a Red Indian on the warpath, with his bloodied tomahawk ever at the ready tomahawk ever at the ready; and O'Farrell, in his clumsy fashion, had pounced. The next issue of his magazine had carried Cracknell's report on the front page, as usual, but instead of being anonymous, it was attributed to 'the justly-stabbing Malay'; and the most recent piece was given to 'the honest Red Indian'. Both monikers had made Cracknell wince with embarra.s.sment.

Sitting at the desk, he looked at his latest report thoughtfully, puffing on his cigarette, and then picked up his pen. At the bottom of the page he wrote, 'The Tomahawk of the Courier Courier'.

Well pleased with his labours, Cracknell decided to venture out. The flaps of the tent were stiff with frost. He had to force them apart, as if he were pushing his way out of a cardboard box. The cold seemed to close around his face, making it ache most unpleasantly. He considered turning around and going back inside, back to bed. Then he reminded himself that there was no food in the tent, and hardly any liquor. He had to forage.

The morning sky was a deep, smooth blue. Sunlight was breaking slowly over the cliffs, turning the tents that covered the plateau from dull grey to shining white. Bearded men wrapped in russet rags moved about in amongst them, dazed and shivering. Surveying the camp as he trudged by, Cracknell felt a profound sense of wrongness. This was not how a military camp should appear at the outset of the day. It was so deathly quiet. There were no bugles sounding the reveille or calling men to their early parades; there was no drilling, no saluting, no shouting at the cack-handed soldier who fumbles with his rifle. There was no clanking of pots, no hissing of b.u.t.ter in pans, no smoke from fires rising up between the dense rows of canvas points. Indeed, the only smoke to be seen came from the chimneys of the cottages given to the senior officers. And very snug little holdings they look too, he thought, turning himself in their direction.

In his now confirmed role as the messiah of Crimean discontent, Cracknell knew that he would be unwelcome at pretty much all of those cosy farmhouses. His fame had inevitably spread in the army camps as much as it had back in England. It had made him a good many enemies. Cracknell didn't mind this in the least; he had always had enemies. The midnight shouts of abuse outside his tent, the threatening gestures and the efforts to impede his work all encouraged him. And he was openly celebrated, he found, amongst the aggrieved and the disillusioned. His arrival in a sympathetic hut or tent was often greeted with cheers, and he would be slapped on the back as he strolled about the campseven as others swore in his face. There were officers among his friends, naturally, but few of these ranked above major, and none had been graced with lodgings of stone and mortar.

Cracknell carried on towards the farmhouses regardless. Up on the Heights at that time of day, they were the only places where food was to be obtained. Furthermore, there was one house among them with which he had a more than pa.s.sing acquaintance.

Boyce had been fortunate indeed after the carnage of Inkerman. The Courier' Courier's charges against him, and its ill-fated attempt to have him brought to justice, sank without traceas did the incriminating painting that Wray had stolen from the villa. Cracknell tried to plant a few seeds of inquiry, seeds that would not lead Codrington back to him, but none took root. In fact, much to his disgust, tales had quickly circulated instead of Boyce's valiant conduct under a punishing fire; of his reckless but incredibly brave advance; of the inspiring manner with which he beat back the Russians, kept his companies together, and held his position against desperate odds until reinforced. Official recognition, however, had not been possible. The 99th Foot had lost more than one hundred and twenty private soldiers as a result of their commander's foolhardy tactics. But there was much approving talk nonetheless, despite Cracknell's best efforts to pre-empt or contradict it; and, before long, a rumour of a reward.

Sure enough, not five days later the undeserving blackguard was installed, along with Madeleine and his servants, in a solid, single-storey farmhouse on the southern edge of the Light Division's camp. This building had weathered the great storm with scarcely the loss of a roof-tile. It had tidy, commodious rooms in which fires were kept roaring for many hours of the day, and hot meals were regularly served; and low, wide windows that had, on occasion, permitted the rapid escape of a rather broad-bottomed Irishman.

Cracknell's intention as he walked towards Boyce's farmhouse was thus to enter through the yard, slide open one of these windows (he had one at the back in mind) and see what victuals lay within easy reach. Madeleine, he knew, would not be around. Miss Wade liked to get her out early. He did not mind this absence in the least. That morning, Cracknell found that he could contemplate a spot of theft with crafty pleasure, but the thought of having to make the declarations of eternal, undying love that had become a condition of Madeleine's company (and the sole route into her undergarments) brought him only an oppressive sense of tedium.

A sentry was posted before the front door. Cracknell redirected himself slightly, affecting a casual demeanour. This soldier was a typically forlorn sight, his uniform in tatters, hugging his rifle close to him as if the wood might emit some warmth if it was squeezed hard enough. Seeing Cracknell, the mangy looking man unfolded his arms and started in his direction. The correspondent quickened his pace.

'Sir!' the soldier croaked. 'Stand for a moment, sir, will you? Just a word, sir!'

The voice was oddly familiar. Cracknell stopped and turned. 'How may I help you, soldier?'

'Pardon my interruptin', sir, but the Major told me all about you.' The soldier was talking quickly, plainly a little agitated. 'An' I've 'eard others a-talkin' since' bout 'ow you're an awful enemy to all them what've left us out 'ere to rotan' to Boyce in partic'lar...'

Cracknell peered closely at the battered features, which were partly lost behind a patchy, colourless beard. 'My apologies, soldier, but have we met before?'

'D'you not remember, sir?' For a second, the man feigned offence. 'Ah well, s'pose there was plenty afoot that day. At the Alma, at the base of the 'ill, by the river. You crawled out of the waters like an 'arf-drowned cat. An' you told us that Boyce was dead.' There was accusation in his voice as he uttered this last statement, as if the correspondent, with this error, had somehow been responsible for preserving the Colonel's life. 'Dan Cregg's the name.'

Cracknell had no memory of this encounter. He could recollect the river and his little swim in it, and then Major Maynard leading the a.s.sault, but that was all. 'Ah yes, of course. Cregg. Yes, of course, of course. It gratifies me to see that you are still in one piece, man. Veterans of both the early engagements and this accursed winter are becoming rare indeed.'

Cregg chuckled sourly, which brought on a cough. 'Ha! Yes sir, true enough, among the ranks at any rate. We're what y'might call a dyin' breed.' He coughed some more. Cracknell noticed that his right hand was swaddled in a thick mitten, whereas the other hand was bare. 'But then, can't say I've 'scaped entirely, sir.'

Cregg drew off his mitten with a pained grimace to reveal a mangled mess bound together with filthy bandages. As far as Cracknell could tell, only two functional fingers remained. Haltingly, the soldier then told the story of how he came to be injured, of Boyce's arrogant errors, and Maynard's senseless death. Standing in the sharp morning air, Cracknell grew steadily more interested. He gave Cregg a cigarette and encouraged him to enlarge upon what he was saying. Was he not tempted, the correspondent asked, to make more of the wound, and get himself shipped home? It looked rather serious, after allcould he even fire a rifle?

Cregg, however, was quite adamant. He was going to remain in the Crimea come what may. At first, Cracknell thought that in this unlikely looking mongrel of a man, he might have found a hero amongst the common soldiery, a n.o.ble warrior to hold up for the admiration of all England in the pages of the Courier Couriera moving counterpoint to the incompetence of those who commanded him. But as Cregg talked on, it became very clear that this was no popular champion. There was something unsavoury about him, Cracknell decided, a touch of the cut-throat, perhaps, of the criminal. He was hardly fit to be paraded before the crowd. And his motive for remaining at the front was not patriotism, nor was it a desire for decisive victory over their foe, nor even a loyalty to his brothers in arms; at least, not to those who still breathed. Cregg wanted to stay in the Crimea so that he could get his revenge on his regimental commander.

When he spoke again of Inkerman, his voice a low, nasal snarl, he positively shook with loathing. ''E took us out there, and then 'e 'id behind a rock.' E 'id himself away, nice and safe, and left it all to the Majoras bleedin' usual. My mates was droppin' all around, and there wasn't nothing we could do. And then the Major...' Cregg looked at the ground. 'The... the Major was a decent cove.'

'I knew him,' declared Cracknell stoically, 'He was decent indeed. Honourable.'

The soldier met his eye. 'Aye,' e was. I've never known 'is like. An' 'e was put through 'ell, sawn up and who knows what elseall 'cause of that c.u.n.t in there.' Cregg glared at the farmhouse door. 'That c.u.n.t c.u.n.tall 'e does now is sit about on 'is a.r.s.e, complainin' about the lack of action. As if 'e'd know what to bleedin' do if action came! Prob'ly just get a whole bunch more of us killed.' E shouldn't get the chance. And by the devil, even if it costs me neck,' e won't get the bleedin' chance.' He stopped talking, and sucked furiously on his cigarette.

Cracknell studied Cregg's face, trying to work out if he would really take the action he threatened. It was a dull, angry red, the lower lip protruding, and trembling slightly. This man is in the grasp of all manner of powerful emotions, the correspondent thought, emotions which his confined, feeble mind cannot fully comprehend or manage. He talks of bold, savage deeds, but then many angry men talk of violent things that they dare not do. His a.s.sertions concerning Boyce's behaviour on the battlefield, though, were all too easy to believe. Such behaviour was typical of the manunlike the heroic yarn of headstrong courage that had been spun by certain of Boyce's peers. Opponents this deserving, Cracknell thought with fierce, righteous purpose, are rare indeed. The correspondent took out his pocketbook, resolving that Cregg's account would form an electrifying addition to a future report from the Tomahawk of the Courier Courier.

A sergeant-major approached the house. Throwing away his cigarette, Cregg slunk back to his post, and responded sullenly to the questions and instructions directed at him. Cracknell, scribbling busily, moved around to the side of the house, in the direction of its small yard. Pausing alongside a window, he leant his back against the cold wall.

He had laid down two lengthy paragraphs when an oil lamp was set on a table just inside the dirty window. He could hear voices. It was Boyce, a servant, and a couple of his officers. Cracknell stopped writing and listened.

'And this is really all that can be provided for us to breakfast upon?' Boyce was saying irritably to the servant. 'Bacon with eggs and beans? What do you think I am, man, a Yankee cowpoke? Are there no lambs' kidneys to be had on this entire peninsula?'

'General state of things is pretty wretched, sir, to be fair,' muttered someone in response.

Boyce sighed, as if he were the most put-upon fellow in all the Crimea. 'Very well, bacon with eggs and beans it is. Upon my honour, that it should come to this.'

Soon, the smell of frying bacon suffused the farmhouse, seeping through the window frame and up Cracknell's nostrils. His stomach began to growl so loudly that he moved a few feet along the wall for fear that the noise might give him away. He thought of Cregg, standing guard outside the front door, forced to endure the same torturous odour with nothing to look forward to but an ounce or two of hard biscuit and a piece of salted pork from an animal butchered before the campaign had even begun.

Cracknell reread the paragraph he had been writing. Its level of severity suddenly seemed desperately inadequate. He drew a line under it and began again, his features slowly lighting with a grin of acerbic glee. Just wait until the b.a.s.t.a.r.d reads this, he thought. It'll put him right off his blasted bacon.

The breakfasting officers started to talk about Balaclava, Boyce declaring that he was riding down to the port that afternoon. There were some civilians arriving, he claimed, old friends of his brother's whom he was keen to see. An officerMajor Pierce, poor Maynard's unworthy replacementoffered to accompany him. Boyce refused rather curtly, and promptly a.s.signed Pierce a tedious regimental task that would keep him occupied for the rest of the day.

Cracknell realised that he had overheard something significant; Boyce, he could tell, was lying through his teeth. He stopped writing. Balaclava, he thoughtnow there's an idea.

4.

Mr Kitson's skin was white as a fish-belly, and dreadfully clammy to the touch. Ever so gently, Annabel lifted him up on to his side, revealing a back sticky with congealing blood. There were two wounds, both to the upper abdomen, neither now bleeding with any persistence, praise G.o.d; but it was quite plain that he needed proper medical attention as soon as it could be secured for him.

She turned, looking for Madeleine. They had been walking along the Worontzov road, heading for the camps, when they had pa.s.sed a French mule-train, bearing the night's sick and injured down to the harbour. This was hardly an uncommon sight, yet something had made Annabel stop; and then she saw them, Mr Kitson and Mr Styles, lashed to one of the wooden litters at the very rear of the column. She had raced over without explanation, and was now unsure if her companion had managed to keep track of her.

There she was, though, those slender shoulders hunched against the cold, making her way unhurriedly along the line. A large proportion of those on the litters were insensible. The rest moaned and shrieked with every b.u.mp on the road; some, delirious, let out burbles of maniacal laughter. Their clothes, such as they were, were blotched with blood, bile and excrement. The mules, smelling the blood and sensing the suffering, were braying in distress.

Madeleine was angling her head so that the rim of her bonnet blocked all but the road beneath her boots. Arriving at Annabel's side, her face wore an expression of confused, slightly petulant distaste. Then she noticed the men tied to the litterthe unconscious, pallid Mr Kitson, and his dishevelled colleague next to him, who clutched at a poorly bandaged thigh with his eyes squeezed shut, squirming around as if in the throes of a terrible dream. She gasped with shock, raising her hands to her face.

'Areare they alone?' she demanded, staring frantically at the adjacent litters. Annabel looked back at her uncomprehendingly. 'Are they alone, Annabel? Tell me! Is Mr Cracknell here with them? Have you seen him?'

Now Annabel understood only too well. She frowned. 'No, dear, he's not here. Do not think of himI'm sure he's perfectly fine, that one.' Standing up, she put a placatory hand upon Madeleine's arm. 'We must go back down to Balaclava with Mr Kitson, Madeleine. Otherwise...' Annabel looked around at the other men in the column. 'Otherwise I fear he will certainly perish along the way. Pa.s.s me the canteen, will you?'

Madeleine didn't hear her. 'NoI must find Richard. I must!' There was panic in her voice.

Annabel tightened her grip on her friend. 'Madeleine, you are coming with me to Balaclava,' she said strictly. 'You know that you can't simply wander off around the camps on your own. Please listen to me, my dear. You have not the first clue where that man might be.' Inwardly, Annabel cursed the smirking face, the swaggering confidence, the very blasted boots of Richard Cracknell.

As tears filmed Madeleine's eyes, Annabel moved forward and embraced her with firm tenderness. 'Listen to me, child. He is well. You must trust me on this. These men are not. We must help them if we can. We must do the Lord's will.'

Madeleine rested her head on her friend's shoulder, rubbing at her eyes. 'The Lord's will, yes,' she murmured. 'The Lord's will.'

With the permission of one of the French drivers, the women climbed up on to the two closest mules, joining the column as it advanced through a bleak, brutal landscape. The gullies between the colourless hills were choked with the decaying corpses of horses and oxen. Heavy clouds had smothered the early morning sun, and a putrid smell hung all about. Vultures cawed hideously to one another, their black and white wings beating at the still air. Even the accursed Cain, Annabel thought, would scarce deserve banishment to such a blighted territory. It seemed that few animals could easily survive there but those who sustained themselves on the flesh of the dead. There was no hay to be had anywhere; no one appeared to have considered what their horses would eat during that winter. Off to the east, Annabel could see two near-spectral creatures, looking truly apocalyptic in their emaciation, straining to drag a stout mortar along a ridge. That both lacked manes and tails, having had them chewed away by their starving fellows, only added to their ghastly, otherworldly appearance. She thanked G.o.d for the st.u.r.dy, omnivorous const.i.tution of the mule she was riding, and gave the beast's rough, grimy hide a clapping pat.

As if in mockery of her grat.i.tude, a few minutes later a mule towards the head of the column let out a scream as one of its hooves twisted in the frozen ruts of the track, breaking the leg. Two drivers held it down, intending to wait until the rest of the party had pa.s.sed before ending the animal's pain. The men on its litter, knowing that they would be left with the dead mule, at the mercy of vultures and wild dogs, begged those trudging by them for help. None were able or willing to supply it. Annabel hardened herself, knowing she could not go to them, blocking her ears to their imprecations.

After the shot had rung out and the drivers returned to the column, she looked around at Mr Kitson. Her mind teemed with awful questions. Was choosing to save him above those poor wretches abandoned back there, or indeed above any number of others, somehow an offence to G.o.d? Was it the result of soulless, practical reasoning, bred by war and the constant presence of death? Was her ability to make such choices, such judgements, an indication of a grievous sinfulness at the very core of her being? She had no answers; but no regrets either.

Annabel kept up with the Courier Courier. She had watched its once-welcome tendency to be controversial steadily develop into a determined, deliberate stirring up of scandal and outrage, regardless of verity and of benefit to no one but those who profited from its sale. How much, she often wished to ask those involved in its production, had actually changed since its programme of wild exposures had begun? How many lives had been saved? This, she felt, was something that Mr Kitson had realised too; and he had relinquished his duties to the Courier Courier, to the irresponsible Mr Cracknell, in order to a.s.suage the torments of his fellow man. This made him worthy of preservation, and she was prepared to answer to the Heavenly Father Himself for her decision to stay with him.

Mr Styles, however, was quite another matter. Had he not been injured and requiring a.s.sistance, she might well have thought twice about exposing Madeleine to his company again. Mr Kitson, she decided, was correctthis fellow should be sent home, and held somewhere secure until his fevered mind had repaired itself. He seemed to be lapsing into a delirium, muttering on and on about how Mr Kitson was to blame for his wound, with as much bitterness as if his colleague had fired the shot himself. Then, after gazing dumbly for a while at Madeleine, who tried to put as much distance between them as possible, he began to insist that he was perfectly all right, that he wished to get up off the litter and head over to the front lines, to see how the siege was faring that day. This was all said loudly and pointedly, as if intended to impress, but all it earned him was some less than polite requests from the occupants of other litters to keep his noise down.

At last, after several painful hours, they rounded a spur to see the whitewashed walls and terracotta slates of Balaclava. The town itself was little more than a few hundred humble fishing cottages cl.u.s.tered together in the shelter of a narrow inlet. Crowning the hills around it were the weather-worn remains of an ancient fortress long ago abandoned to ruin, its architects and purpose forgotten. Dozens of tall ships stood in the confines of the harbour like great gothic cathedrals of wood, iron and bra.s.s, their masts shooting up like spires, their cannon leering from the high decks like long rows of gargoyles. These shining giants of the British Navy were so large and so numerous that in places they all but covered the waters of the inlet. Indeed, some of them appeared to stand not in the sea but upon the land itself, entirely dwarfing the tight huddle of huts and shacks that fringed the quayside. The ma.s.sive ships shared something of the silent serenity of the ancient cathedrals as well as their scale. They were nearly empty of life or movement; few had their gangplanks down, and traffic on these was spa.r.s.e.

Balaclava, in contrast, seemed abuzz with activity. Crowds filled the main thoroughfares. Caravans of travellers struggled in from the surrounding landscape at a constant rate. And on the outskirts, teams of surveyors were taking measurements and making estimates for the planned railway line up to the camps. Construction was set to begin in early February. It would, everyone agreed, transform the war.

This view of the town, as Annabel well knew, was a cruel illusion. As one approached, it seemed a place of sanity, of cleanliness and plenty, of refuge after the madness of the front. It seemed, in short, like civilisation: the supply base where food, clothing and all manner of useful items could be bought, where pipes could be lit, stories exchanged, and rest deservedly taken.

But those expecting relief from hardship and death received a nasty surprise as they drew closer. The wretched merchants of the town, they quickly found, were not decent local people peddling their wares for honest prices, but opportunistic usurers from the surrounding landsand Annabel's worst enemies, with whom she frequently did b.l.o.o.d.y battle. These fiends, entirely indifferent to the suffering of their fellow man, were prepared to sell goods of the very lowest quality for the very highest sums; and they had pitched their stalls, quite happily, in the midst of a plague.

Balaclava was the place where the disease-riddled Turkish Army sent its men to die. From the hills, where all looked so well, one could not see the ankle-deep effluence that ran through those crowded lanes, the scenes of desperate anguish that were being played out inside every dilapidated house and shed, and the rows of dead laid out in the streets once these scenes had reached their inevitable, unvarying conclusions. Every patch of waste ground had become a place of burial. Faces and limbs poked out accusingly from the fresh earth of shallow graves. Unspeakable smells wafted between the half-collapsed buildings, whilst the wailings of bereaved wives competed with the rapacious cries of the sutlers and hawkers.

The mule train forged steadily through all of this in the direction of the docks. Here, in the shadow of the majestic vessels that filled the bay, the chipped, uneven stones of the harbour were almost covered by messy stacks of bales and crates. A profusion of bold stamps, brands and labels indicated that they contained official supplies for the British expeditionary force, shipped out at the expense of Her Majesty's Government of Great Britain, for immediate distribution. Yet they had plainly been standing there for days, exposed to the snow, sleet and rain, devoid of any means of transportation and destined to rot where they had been left.

Annabel was used to such waste. Like the scenes they had just ridden past so calmly, it no longer provoked her. Climbing off the mule, she looked to her companion. Madeleine appeared distracted still, thinking no doubt of the undeserving Mr Cracknell. Mr Styles, also, had renewed his attentions towards her, and was trying to catch her eye with his usual doomed persistence. The sooner this is over, thought Annabel as she knelt to check on Mr Kitson, the better for us all.

A surgeon and a harbour official, both close to exhaustion but working hard to maintain their respective professional demeanours, approached the wounded men lain out on the cold stone. Before any treatment could be given, however, a heated argument began, the official waving a sheaf of forms in the physician's face. After wiping Mr Kitson's brow with the edge of her cloak, Annabel turned towards the bay. Amidst the merchantmen and gunboats floated a number of weather-beaten hospital shipsthe means by which the wounded were conveyed to Scutari. Conditions on board these ships, she had heard, were truly wretched. It was said that a quarter of their patients died before they even left port. Annabel felt an absolute, crippling impotence. She could do nothing more for Mr Kitson. She had wanted to save him, yet had merely delivered him to a fate that was uncertain at best.

With a start, she realised that Madeleine was gone. The foolish girl had slipped back into the squalor of Balaclava. A young woman alone in this town was in serious danger; the heathen mussulman, as Annabel had been told on many occasions, had no respect whatsoever for the unveiled female. She stood, and was about to charge off down the nearest alley when the surgeon arrived at her side.

He looked at Styles and Kitson. 'Civilians,' he said in a tone of mild surprise, making a note on a form. 'What are they doing here?'