The Street Philosopher Part 20

But before his men could act, there was a series of popping sounds from the direction of the lake, followed by a drawn-out whistle, decreasing steadily in pitch as if something was soaring up into the sky and then beginning a slow descent. Jemima looked towards this noise; there was a flash up in the night sky. The evening's fireworks display had begun early, in an effort to restore something of a festive atmosphere after the incident on the dancing boards. A blue rocket burst above the elm trees that fringed the maze, filling the small courtyard before the cave with coloured light. As the cloud of bright blue embers drifted to earth, this light moved with them, causing the shadows to shift and lengthen. For a moment, a long blue finger extended into the depths of the hermit's cave, pointing out those who remained within.

Bill was pressed into one of the deepest corners, up close against another man. Both were naked below the waist, their trousers around their ankles. They had been too involved in their coupling to pay attention to their fleeing fellows. The blue light made them pause, however, and they glanced around in furtive alarm. Bill's eyes went straight to those of Mr Twelves, locking in recognition.

The group that Cracknell had a.s.sembled around the artificial cave exploded like a sh.e.l.l, flinging its parts throughout the Belle Vue Gardens. Disengaging himself and frantically pulling up his trousers, Bill Norton shot from the cave. Knocking Twelves aside, he crashed off into the maze, forcing his way through the bushes. His friend Keane was close behind. More men ran out from the shadows; Norton's black-suits gave chase, forgetting their mission, throwing punches and shouting obscenities as they did so. Kitson looked around quickly for Cracknell, but he was gone, his work complete.

Mrs James had immediately started after Bill Norton and Keane, calling out her brother's name, but had no hope of matching their speed in her crinoline. Kitson caught up with her in a small grove close to the greenhouses. Suddenly seeing the futility of her pursuit, she came to a halt.

'We are ruined,' she said flatly. 'Those men will tell everyone, the entire city. You heard their curses, didn't you, Mr Kitsontheir disgust? It will be a terrible scandal.' She sunk to the ground, the crinoline's whalebone hoops jutting up awkwardly beneath the velvet of her dress.

'All is not lost, Mrs James. I will help you however I can.'

There was a loud crackle from the direction of the lake, followed by a rasping fizz; through a screen of branches, Kitson saw the luminescent reds and golds of the fireworks display glittering across the gla.s.s roofs of the greenhouses.

Mrs James gave no sign of having heard him. She held her face in her hands. 'Oh, poor Bill! All because of my father and his wicked secrets!' A sob shook her shoulders. 'And my husbanddear G.o.d, my husband husband. The old wretch did not tell me any of it, d.a.m.n him d.a.m.n him.' She lowered her hands; tears were shining on her palms. 'What is your connection with all this?' she asked, without turning towards him. 'Did you meet Anthony out there as well?'

Kitson hesitated. 'I don't understand.'

'It appears that Richard Cracknell met my husband in Balaclava and told him all about that accursed Pilate Pilate. Were you not there too, Mr Kitson? And are you his accomplice still, in fact? Was not all of this, including our friendship, just a part of your plan to strike my father down?'

He went to her side, kneeling as quickly as his sore ribs would allow, and took her damp hands in his. 'It was not, I swear it,' he said firmly. 'I did not meet your husband or your father in the Crimea. I am your friend friend. I knew nothing of Cracknell's intentions this evening, and would have done anything to halt him. We parted on the very worst terms. Somesome truly dreadful things were done. It was my avowed intention never to see him again.'

At this, her eyes finally looked back into his; he knew immediately that she believed him. 'But why? What happened?'

Kitson released her hands. The night seemed to grow darker, and the sounds of the fireworks more sharp and violent; but already, before even uttering a word, he tasted an overwhelming relief, as if a pent-up confession was finally beginning. Sitting down beside her, he took off his hat and dropped it into the gra.s.s.

'I will tell you.'

Before Sebastopol, Crimean Peninsula June 1855

1.

Looping his arm under the Russian's knees, Cregg braced himself and tugged hard. Nothing happenedthe man remained firmly lodged beneath the gun carriage. He tugged again, groaning with the effort, his boots skidding in the dirt. The Russian's heavily patched trousers started to come down, exposing the sharp fins of his hips and a dark line of pubic hair, but still he did not move. Cregg cursed wearily, and let the lifeless legs drop back down to the ground.

To his left, over in the main body of the captured fort, the rest of the working party was busy reversing the parapet, toiling without pause in the early morning light. Gabions and fascines were being piled up to reinforce the new offensive wall, and fresh embrasures knocked through, so that the enemy's cannon could be turned about and brought to bear upon their own city. This working party was about a hundred strong, a.s.sembled from the reserve regiments. It had come down through the trenches of the Right Attack with a team of stretcher-bearers, shortly before dawn. The fruits of this latest British victory had been laid out before its reluctant members: an all but demolished position, strewn with loose rocks, torn sandbags and the broken bodies of dead and wounded men. Huddled in amongst the wreckage were the exhausted survivors of the original storming force, their attention fixed on the open ground before their hard-won prize in readiness for a Russian counter-a.s.sault.

Throughout the march to this fort, christened 'the Quarries' as it had been built within the pits of a long-abandoned open-seam mine, Cregg had griped and sworn without restraint. He had thus been selected by the sergeant in charge of his detail to remove Russian corpses from an auxiliary battery. This particular emplacement had plainly seen some savage combat, with fewer than a dozen able-bodied redcoats remaining inside. Some of them watched vacantly as their felled comrades were borne away, and Private Cregg began the grim business of clearing out the Russians.

Army procedure was simply to tip the corpses out on to the field of battle, for the enemy to collect under cover of the next truce declared for this purpose. Moving them was hard, nasty work. Although very thin, the dead men were still heavy, like bundles of lead piping wrapped up in sackcloth. They had to be dragged up high banks of earth and stone and then rolled overwhich involved a dangerous moment of exposure to the ever-vigilant enemy snipers. Some were still alive, having escaped the bayoneting normally dispensed to Russian wounded left behind after their army had withdrawn. They clawed at Cregg's arms, begging and pleading in their garbled-sounding language. He did not respond, and tried his best not to look in their eyes as he heaved them down after the rest. Experience had taught him that this was the easiest way.

The Ruski under the gun carriage was one of the last. Gingerly rubbing his mutilated hand, Cregg wondered how the cove had got himself into this mortal sc.r.a.pe. It looked as if he'd been lying injured on the ground, and someone had deliberately run the cannon, a nine-pound naval gun, over the top of him. Cregg looked around. A private from the 88th was nearby, his rifle in his hands, crouched in a dark corner. He was peering out carefully through the remains of a wooden rifle screen in the direction of Sebastopol.

''Ere, c.o.c.k,' Cregg grunted, 'lend us an 'and, would'ja? This poxy b.u.g.g.e.r won't budge.'

Without a word, the soldier stood his rifle against the wall of the battery and came over to help. Taking hold of the gun carriage in a manner that suggested he'd moved it before, he waited for Cregg to adopt a similar pose on its opposite side; and then, on the count of three, they lugged the cannon backwards. There was a crunching sound from beneath it, and the Russian's legs twisted to the side.

'Much obliged.' Cregg caught an accidental glimpse of the dead man's face. It was contorted with terror, the open mouth exposing a mess of scurvy-blackened gums. 'Tough fight, was it?'

The private looked at the floor, scratching his chin. 'Aye, worst we've 'ad for many a month,' he answered. Cregg saw that this was a fellow veteran, with the numbness that marked their typethe sort who could talk of slaughter as a farmer might discuss the rains. 'We took it easy enough, but the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds kept at us all night, tryin' to win it back.'

Cregg went around the cannon and looked out through the splintered screen next to which his companion had been hunched. Before it lay scores of slain Russians, ten times the number he had removed from the battery. 'Blimey,' he said softly. 'So I see, pal. So I see.'

The other soldier moved to his side. 'This is just the start of it. Word is that the bra.s.s wants us to press at the Redan next.' He looked away, a bleak resentment creeping into his voice. 'This is just the bleedin' start of it.'

Cregg squinted over the bodies towards this formidable fortress. The Redan was the last line of defence before Sebastopol itself. That early in the day, and at a couple of hundred yards' distance, it appeared as little more than a blue block on the horizon, but its proportions were obvious. Cregg whistled through his teeth. 'That's a bleedin' whopper, ain't it, an' no mistake! I wouldn't want to be first out in front o' that b.u.g.g.e.r!' He leant back, pulled out a charred clay pipe, and then nodded towards a hole in the side of the battery. 'Fancy a smoke?'

His companion had edged back to his corner. He shook his head. 'I daren't,' he mumbled uncomfortably. 'Sarge'll have me knackers.' Picking up his minie, he gestured at the Russian with its stock. 'What about 'im?'

Cregg let out a dark laugh. 'Chum, that c.u.n.t ain't going nowhere nowhere.' After quickly checking for his own NCO, who was off in another part of the Quarries, he nodded a curt, faintly scornful farewell to his more obedient comrade, and then slipped out.

To the side of the fort was a long, scarred slope running down to the Middle Ravine, traversed by a single advance trench. Finding a narrow stone ledge that was well sheltered from the enemy line, Cregg made himself as comfortable as possible. He had tried to shield his hand that morning, but some jarring had been unavoidable. As a result, it now felt as if it had been dipped in hot tar. Wincing, he examined it. His remaining fingers, pink as sugar mice, stuck out uselessly from the stained, grubby wad of bandages. He could barely move them at all.

The arrival of a sweltering summer, when there was no longer any excuse for gloves or mittens, had made it harder to conceal his disability from officers. He was managing, though, just about, tugging his sleeve down and so forthand with the present shortages of experienced troops, n.o.body was looking too closely. He was a touch concerned that no real healing seemed to be going on beneath his clumsy bindings, but he was at least getting good at gulping down the pain.

As he put a match in the pipe's bowl, Cregg heard screams echoing off the sides of the Middle Ravine. Sucking coa.r.s.e smoke down into his lungs, he saw that this wide gully, the main artery of the Allied siege, was crowded with wounded from both the French and British armies. The Frogs had been engaged in a parallel action further along the line, and had also succeeded, taking the fort of the Mamelon Vert; and from the look of things, it had been a costly victory indeed. Hospital tents had been set up in the ravine, to which the injured were being carried in their dozens. Through an open flap, in flickering candlelight, Cregg caught sight of a man in his shirt sleeves vigorously working a hand-saw as if breaking up logs. Then he stepped back, his arms red, and an orderly lifted an entire leg from the table before him, taking it outside and adding it carelessly to a large, pale pile of amputated limbs.

With a start, Cregg realised that there was someone close to where he sat, out on the slope. His first thought was that it might be a Russian scout, creeping around as they sometimes did, looking for an officer to take a pot-shot at. But nothis was a civvie, clad in a long, tattered coat and a black cap. He was hunched over some paper, taking frequent looks down at the hospital tents in the Middle Ravine. He's drawing them, Cregg thought. Rumours had been going around the camps for some time about an artist who lived in a cave on the French side of the ravine. They said he was soft in the head, and that the Frogs treated him like a pet, giving him food and firewood. Cregg was sceptical; there were many hundreds of bored men up on the plateau, talking all manner of nonsense. Seeing this chap now, though, brought back a distant memory of Inkerman Ridgeof hunting for a wandering artist with Major Maynard.

From somewhere in front of the Quarries, several muskets were discharged, and British voices shouted in alarm. Abruptly, the artist stopped what he was doing and rose unsteadily to his feet, picking up a folder and limping off in the direction of these shots. After only a few yards, he stumbled on the uneven ground, causing a sheaf of papers to slip out the back of his folder. He didn't notice; Cregg called out to him, but he was moving too fast, lost in a mad hurry to get to the site of the shooting. A moment later, he'd vanished around the edge of the slope.

'Rum cove,' Cregg murmured, dragging on his pipe, his eyes wandering back to the spilled sheets of paper. Impulsively, staying as low as he could, he edged over to where they lay. Seeing that they were sketches, he scooped them up and retreated to his ledge. Most were horriblebodies, skulls and suchlike. Cregg leafed through them quickly, his face wrinkled with uncomprehending distaste. Then he arrived at the saucy stuff.

The soldier was staggered by his sheer good fortune. On these pages were none other than fat Mr Tomahawk and pretty Mrs Colonel, f.u.c.king like wild beasts, rendered so lifelike they could almost have been panting away in front of him. He blinked in astonishment, hardly able to believe it.

Ever since Inkerman, he'd been alert for opportunities to get Boyce, to get him good and proper for what he'd done. But he quickly realised that unless he was prepared to die himself, the Colonel was beyond his reachand now that it came to it, Cregg was not entirely sure that he was quite ready to give up his life for the sake of revenge. So he'd been confined to glowering from the line as Boyce paced imperiously before them, imagining a bayonet stabbing into that rotten carca.s.s, or a bullet cracking open that horrible head, but remaining powerless to strike against the b.a.s.t.a.r.d who had killed Major Maynardwho had the blood of so many of his pals all over his stinking toff hands.

Now, though, things were different. These pictures, with their mix of quim and scandal, would draw men from throughout the camps. Boyce would become the b.u.t.t of a wicked joke that Dan Cregg would spread through the whole b.l.o.o.d.y army. This wasn't quite the satisfaction that he desired; but it would do very nicely for the time being.

An enraged bellow came from the fortifications behind him. 'Cregg, you blasted cur, where the devil are you?'

It was his sergeant. He'd been nabbed once again, and would certainly be flogged for shirking his duties. Yet even this could not put a dent in his good spirits. Wearing a tight, malicious grin, he tucked the drawings safely inside his tunic and went back into the battery.

2.

As usual, the atmosphere in the British Hotel was thick with tobacco smoke and the masculine hum of military conversation. Merriment and laughter, however, so often found in the hotel, were in short supply that night. Every soldier gathered there had the subdued, anxious manner that always prevailed in the ranks on the eve of a great attack. They cl.u.s.tered around the fireplace, sat at tables and perched upon the barrels and crates that stood about, nervously discussing what few details were known. The majority had just been retired from the forward positions, and would not be fighting that day; but every one of them had friends, cousins or brothers in the a.s.saulting divisions.

Slowly, Kitson knelt by one of the crude wooden columns that stood along the length of the hotel's main saloon, and wrung out a b.l.o.o.d.y flannel into a basin of water. In the past few hours, he had treated a long procession of cuts, sprains and dislocations, the results of soldiers being knocked down by exploding sh.e.l.ls, or clipped by shrapnel. Such injuries, he had learned, indicated that the early stages of a major action were underway, with the heavy guns exchanging fire as a prelude to a large-scale infantry engagement. On this occasion, it had seemed that the initiative belonged to the Allies. The previous afternoon, they had bombarded Sebastopol with an unprecedented ferocity. Veils of fine grey dust had been shaken from the hotel's rafters. Nothing, Kitson had thought, could possibly survive such a concerted barrage. Sebastopol and everyone in it had surely been flattened.

Yet much of the talk he was hearing that night cast doubt upon this estimation. A party clad in the dark blue jackets and overalls of the Artillery Division were seated around one of the hotel's largest tables, swigging hot port from tin mugs and devouring generous slabs of Mrs Seacole's seed-cake. They had been working the thirteen-pound mortars throughout the bombardment, and had been so deafened by this task that they were virtually shouting at one another in their efforts to communicate. From their bellowed exchanges, Kitson and numerous others discovered that the order to cease firing had come too soon; that the mortars were not doing the damage expected of them; and that, most importantly of all, the advance of the infantry had been delayed for so long that any advantage the bombardment might have gained them was already lost.

'They'll have rebuilt the b.l.o.o.d.y walls rebuilt the b.l.o.o.d.y walls!' yelled one despondently, a greasy hand cupped over his ear in a futile attempt to amplify his comrades' responses. 'Only earthworks earthworks, ain't they? He works d.a.m.n fast, does the Russian! d.a.m.n fast d.a.m.n fast!'

It took the emergence of the matron of the British Hotel, the benevolent ruler of this peaceful, cosy realm, through a door behind the long counter to lift the gloom that afflicted her clientele that night. Mrs Seacole was dressed for riding, a long cape covering her striped dress, and a capacious saddle-bag bursting with provisions slung over her shoulder. Upon her head was a wide-brimmed hat that sported a huge blue feather. Kitson realised that she was intending to embark on one of her mercy missions up to the plateau. Since they had left the Medora Medora, she had undertaken these trips with greater frequency. She often proclaimed that she would not languish in the comfort of the hotel whilst the soldiers, her dear, brave sons, lay injured and needy at the front. Kitson, wary of whom he might encounter, had thus far declined to accompany her.

This stout, middle-aged mulatto lady was greeted with almost reverential warmth by the men a.s.sembled in the main saloon. They raised their cups, letting out weary cheers and banging fists on tabletops; a number called out 'Good evening to you, Mother Seacole' with earnest courtesy. She beamed back at them, returning their hearty salutations, her teeth shining white against a complexion the colour of strong tea. With every eye upon her, she walked around the counter's end, heading over to a table of regulars. In seconds they were all laughing uproariously, whilst the rest of the hotel's occupants looked on with envy. Kitson watched as she patted the cheek of one of her younger patrons, making a tender remark that made him blush scarlet and his comrades heave with fresh amus.e.m.e.nt.

This was her way, and it was effective indeed. The ease with which she mixed with the fighting men, and the great and honest affection she showed them, brought them true respite from their burdens. Kitson's admiration for her, for her open-hearted humanity, knew no limit. Her approach to the treatment of the wounded was expert, and very different from the clinical barbarity of so many of the male, Anglo-Saxon surgeons he had worked with at Balaclava harbour. This place, the British Hotel, was another source of wonderment. Mrs Seacole had summoned the building out of nowhere whilst Kitson still lay crippled in a hammock aboard the Medora Medora. It had an improvised quality, the beams little more than stripped tree trunks, the counter fashioned from a portion of a ship's hull, still with barnacles attached; but these disparate, unlikely parts, seemingly knitted together by the sheer force of Mrs Seacole's will, formed a haven for those trapped in the Crimea.

Although she had taught him much during their time together, Kitson did not delude himself. He did not possess Mrs Seacole's unparalleled ability to soothe her patients' minds as well as their bodily afflictions, and would always remain her strange, nameless a.s.sistant. But he had thought of another way to repay the vast debt he owed her. Upon their return to England at the conclusion of the war, he had resolved to pen a grand account of this lady's Crimean endeavours, detailing her achievements and thus sealing her fame. Public appet.i.te for a tale of such genuine heroism would surely be huge. Mary Seacole would become a celebrated, emulated person, known to all, loved by allas she so richly deserved to be.

The main door creaked open behind Kitson, pulling him from these pleasant reflections. He turned, expecting another exhausted soldier to stagger in. Instead, he saw Miss Annabel Wade. She looked thinner, and was in a state of some anxiety, quickly taking in the smoky room. Kitson knew at once that he was the object of her search, but found that he was distinctly reluctant to approach her. He stood, his basin in his hands, waiting to be discovered.

Locating him, Miss Wade hurried to his side with evident relief. 'Mr Kitson, thank the Lord. I had heard that you were a part of this ... concern.' She cast an uncertain glance around the hotel. 'I only pray that I am not too late. Sir, you must come back to the camps with me, right away.'

Kitson felt as if he had been caughtapprehended. He had a.s.sumed that no one who knew him from before his injury was aware that he was at the British Hotel. It was most disturbing to discover otherwise. He set down the basin.

Miss Wade drew a breath. 'It is Mr Styles. He is in the Crimea still.'

Kitson's mind went blank; his limbs were tingling, bursting with an energy so intense and powerful it somehow prohibited any movement. He managed to shake his head. 'Impossible.'

'I'm afraid not. He has been seen.'

'He was wounded, though, shortly before I was.' Kitson crossed his arms, trying hard to gather his recollections. 'Miss Wade, I was told that you accompanied us both down to Balaclava harbour that morning, and that we were due to be transported out on the Charity Charity. I checked the patient logs as soon as I was able. There were a number of unnamed civilians aboard her when she sailed. Was not Styles among them?'

Miss Wade said that he was not, and recounted how, after staying out of sight for many weeks, the ill.u.s.trator had recently started to appear again, his garb and bearing even more desperate than previously, wandering around the margins of the camp like a vengeful apparition. Some reports had placed him close to the Boyces' farmhouse, she said, and she feared for Mrs Boyce's safety, given Mr Styles' persistent, unnatural attachment to that young lady.

'He is known to come out during the larger actions. Some saw him during the taking of the Quarries.' Miss Wade shivered. 'They say he is armed.'

Kitson frowned, his shock turning to anger. 'I will not attempt to deceive you, Miss Wade. If Robert Styles' mind remains as clouded as it was a few months ago, then he is dangerous indeed.'

'But you are his one friend here, Mr Kitson, are you not? At the time of your injury, I gained the distinct impression that you had been attempting to restrain Mr Styles in his violent excesses. Can you not try to do the same now?'

Kitson did not answer. 'What of Cracknell?'

Miss Wade snorted sarcastically. 'Come, Mr Kitson, you know that gentleman far better than I. He vanished from the camps long ago. Those scabrous reports of his were beginning to make things difficult for him, I thinkas were his wicked interferences in the Boyce household. No, he has been absent from all our lives for quite some time, thanks be to G.o.d.'

Before Kitson could say any more, a loud laugh close to his elbow told him that Mrs Seacole was approaching. A moment later she was with them, looking Miss Wade over with keen, friendly curiosity.

'And who is this upstanding lady, Thomas?' Her voice was deep and smooth, with a lilting Caribbean cadence.

Kitson made the introduction, briefly explaining the nature of Miss Wade's work.

Mrs Seacole nodded cannily. 'Yes, I have seen you round about, Miss Wade, doing good things up on the plateau, with the prettiest young creature by your side. Holding the men transfixed transfixed, she was!'

Miss Wade, although clearly on her guard, could not help but smile at this comment. 'My companion, Mrs Madeleine Boyce.'

'A fine beauty indeed, that one.' Mrs Seacole gave a contented sigh. 'Well, this is an honour for us, isn't it, Thomas? We don't often get ladies in the British Hotel, and certainly not those from the proud Caledonian tribes. I am of Scottish ancestry myself, Miss Wade. Now, can I get you some refreshment, my dear? A pot of half-and-half, perhaps? Or a tot of shrub?'

Miss Wade was regarding her host doubtfully. 'Thank you, Mrs Seacole, but I-'

'How about a marrow pudding, then? Fresh up from the harbour this very afternoon! Are the marrow puddings not good, Toby?' she asked a nearby corporal with crumbs in his beard.

'Prime, Mother, prime,' he replied appreciatively. 'You're a rare treasure, truly ye are.' Miss Wade, however, could not be tempted.

Kitson, silent throughout this exchange, accepted his fate. He saw that he must do what his visitor asked of him. 'Mrs Seacole,' he broke in, 'I believe that I shall accompany you to the plateau this morning.'

Mrs Seacole gave every sign of being pleasantly surprised by this decision; a moment later, though, she was asking him concernedly whether his poor chest was up to it. Turning to Miss Wade, she told the tale of how she had removed Thomas Kitson, the wounded orderly, from the quay at Balaclava and taken him to her base of operations aboard the Medora Medora. There, she had nursed him back to health; and when she had taken up proprietorship of the British Hotel three months later, her orderly had chosen to go with her.

'And now, having barely left this building in six long weeks, you wish to come up to the line,' she p.r.o.nounced heavily, her eyes on Kitson's chest. 'You must promise me that you will be careful, Thomas. That is still a grave wound indeedyou must let Nature do her work. We simply cannot have some pa.s.sing excitement undoing all the progress that has been made.'

'Certainly not, Mrs Seacole. I understand completely.' Although the bleeding had stopped and he could move around normally with little discomfort, Kitson was all too aware of his continued fragility. He was coming to realise that his ribs would never regain the strength they had before that night in the advance parallel.

'I'm sure that young Master Cowan can hold the fort in our absence, wherever he's got to. I suppose it is only right, Thomas, that you wish to help those most in need of it. He is quite adept, Miss Wade, with a mustard poultice and a length of lint!' She adjusted her riding cape. 'But there is another reason for this sudden change of heart, Thomas, is there not. Don't deny it, my love, I can tell.'

Miss Wade was plainly impatient to be off, thinking only of getting back to the camps, back to Madeleine Boyce. Her fears regarding Styles were very real.

'An old obligation, Mrs Seacole,' Kitson said. 'To a friend. It should not take long.' He had no idea if this were true. Who could say what might await him back at the camps?

'Someone you wish to save from destruction, I take it.' Mrs Seacole's jollity left her. Devoid of her usual happy animation, she seemed to age before him, the lines on her round face deepening in the soft oil-light of the hotel. 'Very well, Thomas. I have been talking to my sons this past day. They firmly believe that the Russians will be ready for them when the dawn attack is sounded. I fear that we are on the brink of a great disaster, my dears; one that we are quite powerless to prevent. The coming day will be a truly terrible one for all.'

But then, quite suddenly, she recovered her habitual cheer, bidding the room an expansive farewell, telling the soldiers to take their ease and stay as long as they wished. In return, she received a robust chorus of good wishes, as well as stern instructions to keep herself safe, and leave getting shot at by the Ivans to those who were paid to put up with it. Adjusting her plumed hat and her saddle-bag, she opened the hotel's door and strode out into the darkness, towards where the horses were tethered. Miss Wade was less than a step behind. Kitson pulled his jacket from the back of a chair and followed, closing the door after him.

3.

The railway wagon reached the steepest part of the ascent to the camps. As the team of horses pulling it began to strain, the navvies walking beside the tracks started up a chant. They kept time with steady monotony, their low intonations punctuated by the crack of the driver's whip. Cracknell, perched atop a pile of ammunition crates in the back of this crude, heavy cart, told himself to be patient: even without an engine, this was still the fastest route to the front. He listened to the creaking of the rope harnesses, and hoped that the fellow manning the brake had his wits about him, lest something gave way and they found themselves rolling back down towards Balaclava.

Behind the wagon, several dozen sailors were trudging across the sleepers, kept uncharacteristically quiet by the prospect of the morning ahead. These blue-jackets were to serve as storming parties, supporting the great ma.s.s of infantry; the scaling ladders they would carry into the a.s.sault hung from the wagon's sides. Every man there had been a.s.signed this duty after losing a lottery aboard his vessel, and one could tell this from just a single glance at their grim faces. Shooting down ladder-bearers was the obvious way to hinder an attack on a fortified positionas the Russians would surely be aware.

The skeletal remains of innumerable broken vehicles and cargo containers were heaped along the sides of the road, dimly visible in the gathering dawn. Lights from the supply base at Kadikioi shone up ahead, catching from time to time on the eyes of feral dogs watching their progress from the cover of the surrounding meadows. The scent of wild flowers drifted over the wagon, carried on a breeze that brushed gently through the long gra.s.s. On the left, rising up to a sharp, dark line against the softening sky, was the Black Sea.

To the relief of all, the wagon finally made it on to the plateau. The railway track curved in towards the huts and barns of Kadikioi, and then ran straight on to the forward camps. Seeing the many hundreds of white tents, spread across the blue-grey fields like points of light on a rippling lake, brought cheer to the Tomahawk's heart. He was positively itching for action. Balaclava, although greatly recovered from its ghastly winter, remained somewhat dull for a man accustomed to the front line. The most thrilling it got was the occasional afternoon's horse racing staged by the cavalry at the nearby village of Karani. Much to his disgust, he had managed to miss the a.s.saults of the previous week due to a bout of diarrhoea brought on by some suspect seafood. A decisive victory had been won at the Quarries. The significance of the operation was ably attested to by the numbers of injured brought down to the quay. Watching this bleak procession from his window, Cracknell had vowed that when the next column was made, he would be there.

The railway cart, by now a familiar sight, was largely ignored as it trundled by the endless tents and parading soldiers. A few blasts of artillery were heardthe rear batteries, Cracknell reckoned, grabbing the chance for a bit of early morning practice before the day's labour got underway. He turned to where the plateau dipped down towards Sebastopol. From such a distance, the besieged port city and its fortifications looked like an ugly, disfiguring knot in the smooth grain of the landscape.

Half an hour later, the wagon reached the final stretch of track. The driver slowed it as much as he could; then the navvies strode around, swiftly untethering the horses and leading them away whilst the cart was still in motion. Cracknell climbed down, staggering a little as he dropped to the ground. Behind him, the wagon hit the buffer at the track's end with a loud clang. Men from the Quartermaster-General's department were upon it immediately, distributing its cargo amongst their regimental counterparts. Cracknell spotted none other than the Quartermaster-General himself, directing the proceedings. A decidedly reptilian creature, responsible for much suffering in the Tomahawk's book, he was also known to have an old family connection with Boyce. This man was the source, unwitting or otherwise, of whatever bait had been used to reel in Charles NortonCracknell was sure of it. And when this war had finally worn itself out, he had vowed that he would discover the details. He would use his prominence, his reputation, to expose them all.

Cracknell made for the old Courier Courier tent, intending to retrieve the field gla.s.s he had left locked in his sea-chest. He wasn't entirely sure what he would find. Shortly before he'd left the plateau, this worthy structure had been subjected to several attacks from those angered by his reports. It had been partly collapsed, the canvas slashed with an officer's sword; and he could smell that someone, several people in fact, had relieved themselves on the top of his desk. He had already decided to leave for Balaclava, but these incidents only increased his determination to do so. The animosity of these people would only grow more intense, after all; the Tomahawk of the tent, intending to retrieve the field gla.s.s he had left locked in his sea-chest. He wasn't entirely sure what he would find. Shortly before he'd left the plateau, this worthy structure had been subjected to several attacks from those angered by his reports. It had been partly collapsed, the canvas slashed with an officer's sword; and he could smell that someone, several people in fact, had relieved themselves on the top of his desk. He had already decided to leave for Balaclava, but these incidents only increased his determination to do so. The animosity of these people would only grow more intense, after all; the Tomahawk of the Courier Courier was not about to soften either his views or their expression. How the h.e.l.l could he? Lord Aberdeen's disastrous government had fallen, it was true, but who had replaced him? Yet another aged aristocrat, Lord Palmerston this time, a man over seventy years old with poor hearing, poor eyesight and a famously belligerent temper. Cracknell's feeling about 'Pam', as he was known, had been bad from the start; and sure enough, the bullying villain had since shown that he was set on continuing the war until some manner of British victory was achieved, regardless of the cost. He wanted Sebastopol, in short, and was pressuring Raglan to deliver it. This was the reason the army was to be thrown at the Great Redan that morning. Cracknell knew in his bones that this rather literal tactic would lead only to calamity. All he could do, though, as ever, was observe what transpired and report it back to his readers. was not about to soften either his views or their expression. How the h.e.l.l could he? Lord Aberdeen's disastrous government had fallen, it was true, but who had replaced him? Yet another aged aristocrat, Lord Palmerston this time, a man over seventy years old with poor hearing, poor eyesight and a famously belligerent temper. Cracknell's feeling about 'Pam', as he was known, had been bad from the start; and sure enough, the bullying villain had since shown that he was set on continuing the war until some manner of British victory was achieved, regardless of the cost. He wanted Sebastopol, in short, and was pressuring Raglan to deliver it. This was the reason the army was to be thrown at the Great Redan that morning. Cracknell knew in his bones that this rather literal tactic would lead only to calamity. All he could do, though, as ever, was observe what transpired and report it back to his readers.

Approaching the tent, he was surprised to see clear signs of habitation. Was it soldiersrenegade Turks perhaps? Or Tartar peasants? The Tomahawk adopted a fearless, commanding expression, pushed open the flaps and strode inside.