The Street Philosopher Part 5

2.

Ten thousand men, four divisions of line infantry, marched across the plain towards the Russian guns. Music from a dozen regimental bands mingled together to form a dense martial cacophony. The battalion from the 99th was advancing at the centre of the Light Division, arranged into two long rows with its colours raised. Boyce, riding out in front, looked back over his troops with pride. The hours of drilling on the parade ground were showing their worth. Not a single private was out of placemore than could be said for some other parts of their division. He permitted himself a dry smile. Finally, after almost twenty years of service, he was leading men into battle. The Russians must be quaking in their boots, he thought, at the discipline, at the courage on display. What a glorious sight they must be!

The line approached a st.u.r.dy fence running across their path. Standing close to it, on the corner of a small crossroads, was a crude fingerpost. It had been whitewashed all over; even the names on the signs had been obscured.

'Lieutenant-Colonel!' someone shouted. 'A word, sir!'

Boyce sighed. It was Major Maynard. Trust him to spoil the moment. 'What is it, Mr Maynard?' he replied impatiently, urging his mare over the fence. She cleared it effortlessly.

'The signpost, sir! It's been whitewashed!' There was alarm in the Major's voice. The soldiers marching behind Maynard, who were listening intently, all swivelled their eyes towards the white wooden fingers.

'Well of course it has!' snapped Boyce, wheeling around. 'They don't want to offer us directions to Sebastopol, do they? Honestly, man!'

Maynard glanced at the long row of attentive faces behind him, and then rushed forward, ducking through the bars of the fence and running up alongside his commander's horse. 'No, sir, with respect, I really don't think that's it,' he said forcefully.

Boyce felt his earlier fury return. Why his superiors sought to torment him by placing this dullard in his regiment was completely beyond his capacity to understand. And his wretched voice, with those horrible tw.a.n.ging vowelsit was, quite unmistakably, the voice of a commoner. 'Then what, pray, is it, Maynard?'

The line met the fence. It creaked as it went down. Soldiers flowed around the fingerpost.

'Artillery, sir. It's for their artillery,' Maynard answered. 'To indicate the limits of range.'

Boyce scoffed, and started to ride on. 'Oh, what absolute rot! Honestly, Maynard, I sometimes think-'

The report of the cannons rolled around the valley. A dozen white smoke-jets leapt from the midst of the Russian redoubts. The black mare started to rear.

Styles froze. There was a split-second pause, and then a shrill whistle, followed by a heavy thud, and shouts from the ranks before him. These were not shouts of distress, however, but of warning; the cannon-b.a.l.l.s were hitting the gra.s.s some fifty feet in front of the line, and then bouncing towards it. The soldiers could see the shot coming, and step smartly to one side.

Recovering himself, he watched a ball roll away, smoking, across the plain. Some among the redcoats began to yell abuse at the Heights, mocking their enemy's marksmanship. Cracknell trotted on ahead, waving for his colleagues to follow. Styles was at his side in seconds, determined not to let the senior correspondent get ahead and thus have an edge when the time for valour arrived.

As they fell in a few yards behind the soldiers, he looked the Irishman over, and wondered for the thousandth time what the divine Madeleine Boyce could see in such an empty cad, such an arrogant, self-aggrandising buffoon. It made no sense at all; and the worst of it, the part that made him truly sick, was the certain knowledge that despite the fact that she was being pawed by this scapegrace, freely consenting to it, enjoying enjoying it even, he loved her still. He loved her more than ever, in fact, with an aching intensity that felt as if it would send him screaming across the valley, straight towards the Russian guns. it even, he loved her still. He loved her more than ever, in fact, with an aching intensity that felt as if it would send him screaming across the valley, straight towards the Russian guns.

But he was also quite certain that he was worth ten Cracknells. And this battle, he thought, gritting his teeth, is my great chance to prove it to her.

A ball whipped past him, so close that a gust of hot, bitter wind blew across his face. It seemed to be travelling much faster and higher than the two-score shots that had come through the 99th so far, and prompted a fearful spasm; a couple of feet to the left, and his campaign would surely have ended right there.

To his relief, this spasm did not linger. There was, in fact, a bizarrely jocular atmosphere to the advance that made his momentary loss of self-possession seem entirely unwarranted. The soldiers continued to joke and laugh whilst their bands played on gaily. The reports of the enemy cannon were distant and grand, like rolling drums, and their shots, including the one that had come so near to him, were still spinning away harmlessly. It was easy to convince oneself that all was well, that careful plans were being skilfully executed, and would lead to swift victory.

Kitson, who had been lagging, finally caught up with them, a hand on his hat like a man struggling through a gale. He seemed to be experiencing serious disquiet; his eyes were darting around furiously, trying to look in several directions at once. Could it be that the junior correspondent, having come this far, did not have the nerve for the challenge aheadthat he had reached the limits of his endurance?

Cracknell turned to them, beaming. 'You see?' he shouted cheerily over the noise of the marching army. 'What did I tell you? All quite mechanical!'

Kitson, plainly unconvinced, crouched down as low as possible whilst Cracknell did the complete opposite, pulling himself to his full height, and then stretching and craning in order to see as much as he could. Keen to align himself with the brave, Styles did the same. He caught sight of Lieutenant-Colonel Boyce, out in front atop his black horse, surveying his dodging men with distaste, yelling at his sergeants to enforce the regimental line.

Then came the soundmetal striking flesh, tearing through it in an instant, like a butcher cleaving a rack of ribs. All laughter among the soldiers stopped abruptly, as if a door had been suddenly slammed on a room full of merriment, and an astonished scream took its place.

Boyce's voice rose above the cannon-fire, somewhere up ahead. 'Leave the wounded for the bandsmen! Leave them where they fall, I don't care what rank they are! Keep steady! Press the advance!'

Another shot hit the 99th. Styles saw a red spray arc briefly above the soldiers' shakos, and a wet ball slide into the gra.s.s behind them. The band stopped playing and left the advance. Their sergeant, a flute in his hands, stared dumbfounded at the smattering of broken bodies that lay in the wake of the line. Some of the injured writhed and wailed, others lay motionless and silent. Several were clearly dead, their skulls caved in or organs horribly exposed. Close to the Courier Courier men was a corporal, his left leg sheared off just above the knee, a creamy substance oozing from the white shard of bone, mixing with his blood. He was trying to sit up, puffing frantically. men was a corporal, his left leg sheared off just above the knee, a creamy substance oozing from the white shard of bone, mixing with his blood. He was trying to sit up, puffing frantically.

It was happening too quickly, far too quickly. Thinking to take stock for a moment, Styles came to a halt; and found himself staring dumbly at this corporal's wound, drawn in by the savage colours, the cruelly attenuated form, the hideous, pulsing rawness of it. His stomach cramped painfully, and sweat sprung out across his brow, but he could not look away.

A hand closed on his shoulder. It was Kitson. He was facing the sergeant, who still stood resplendent and useless in his richly embroidered bandsman's uniform. 'Aren't you going to do something?' he demanded angrily.

The sergeant started, as if shaken out of a trance. He rubbed his brow with his sleeve, and hung the flute on his belt. 'Orders are to carry 'em back. Ferfer transport out.'

'Back where? Out where?'

The sergeant just shook his head. Hesitantly, the band members approached the wounded and began to drag them back towards the Allied camp. The corporal, gripped under each arm and trailing fluids, started to sob piteously, but after a few yards fell into unconsciousness.

'Come, Styles,' muttered Kitson. 'We must stay focused on our task. Mr Cracknell won't wait for us.'

Styles nodded, trying to right his stumbling spirits. Such sights were part of battle. Cracknell was up in front, just behind the army, a dirty black blemish on a row of glowing red, jotting something in his pocketbook. They were a good distance closer to the Russian cannon now, the b.a.l.l.s cleaving the air above them with wallowing roars. As they arrived at the senior correspondent's side, a private further down the line was struck full in the chest and flung back violently through his fellows. Immediately, an officer began shouting for his men to fill the hole and keep to their places. The voice, high and lisping, sounded familiar; Styles stole a quick glance above the mult.i.tude of shining black shakos to see Captain Wray, waving his sword at his soldiers as if threatening them with it, cursing them vehemently for their cowardice.

A sh.e.l.l cracked overhead, a painfully sharp, ringing noise; and several soldiers below were dashed bloodily to the ground. Styles could see several mounted officers conferring ahead of the advance, displaying themselves to the enemy guns with studied nonchalance. An order was given, bugles calling along the line, and the ma.s.sive force came to a halt. The redcoats lay down under the Russian fire, trying their best to bury themselves in the coa.r.s.e Crimean gra.s.s. Styles realised that someone was tugging at his sleeve. Kitson was pulling him towards a small copse of silver-barked trees just behind the rows of stationary soldiers, in which Cracknell was already stowing himself. Another sh.e.l.l burst, closer and lower this time, throwing up clods of earth. The ill.u.s.trator was dimly aware of blood-soaked gra.s.s, slippery under his feet; then he was lying on his belly in the heart of the copse. The soil beneath him felt cool through his shirt. He could hear the trills of birdsong in the branches above, even over the barrage. The birds must be trapped, he thought, too frightened to take the risk of flight across the battlefield.

Styles peered out through the undergrowth. Officers continued to ride the line, their heads high as if inviting death; shows of courage that even managed, in places, to coax embattled cheers from their men. Gulping down some smoky air, he took out a sheet of paper and a pencil. But he could not draw. His body, his thoughts and his emotions all seemed to be completely beyond his control. He could feel his limbs beginning to tremble. You can endure battle, he tried to tell himself. You are no coward. What are a few sh.e.l.ls, some blood, and a spot of cannon-fire? You have to show Mrs Boyce that you are a better man than Richard Cracknell. You have to show her show her. These thoughts ran through his head over and over again, like an incantation intended to firm up the mind and steady the nerves. Yet still he could not draw. At that moment, his many years of artistic training, of study and tireless application, were utterly lost to him.

Kitson had positioned himself upright, behind the thickest trunk. All signs of his earlier anxiety were gone. He now seemed, to the quailing Styles, an enviable exemplar of composure. Notebook out, he was asking Cracknell the reason for the halt.

The senior correspondent checked something inside his jacket; then he climbed warily to his feet and pointed towards the far side of the valley, in the direction of the sea. 'Over there, look! The French are attacking. I should think that Raglan is waiting for them to take the coastal heights before continuing the British a.s.sault. All strictly by the book, my friends!'

Styles peered over at these heights. Above them, sh.e.l.l-fire was creating a constellation of drifting, star-shaped clouds. Tiny blue figures swarmed over the river and up into the foothills, breaking formation as they dashed forwards. Russians had descended to meet them, and Styles could see a vicious tangle of bodies where the two sides clashed. The dead dropped on to the steep hillside and rolled away from the fighting, their limbs flailing as they tumbled towards the river.

A series of sh.e.l.ls exploded above the copse, deafeningly loud, shredding the soldiers closest to it and smashing several of the trees to splinters. Kitson and Cracknell were knocked to the earth, winded, landing alongside Styles. All three were splattered with sap and viscera. Looking up at the sky in terror, the ill.u.s.trator saw dark shapes shooting away in every direction, so fast the eye could barely discern them. He thought at first that this must be the scattering of shrapnel; but then realised that it was the birds, finally forced to take flight into the iron-filled air.

On the low hill two miles back from the river, Madeleine watched as a group of Cossack hors.e.m.e.n rode into the empty village by the Alma. Each one wore a fur hat and a long green kaftan, and was carrying a burning torch. A few moments later, thick smoke began to belch from the quaint thatched cottages, soon engulfing large parts of the British line.

This was a dire development. Even with the help of Captain Lichfield's telescope, her hopes of locating Richard, of a.s.suring herself that he was safe, had now dwindled away to nothing. She realised suddenly that the time had come. She had to act.

Lichfield himself was over at his horse, a large bay tethered thirty yards or so from the summit of the hill. He was stowing some papers in a saddle-bag. Madeleine waved to him, and he hurried over obediently.

'Captain, I must get closer closer,' she said, wrinkling her brow in pretty vexation. 'We are too far away here. It is all too far away.'

This was met immediately by a chorus of disapproving noises from the wives behind them. 'I'm afraid that's impossible, Mrs Boyce,' said Lichfield, mildly surprised. 'Quite out of the question. Surely you can still see well enough from here?' He nodded at his telescope, which lay in her lap.

Madeleine shook her head. 'The smoke.' She gestured with vague impatience. 'It makes it impossible to see.' She rose. 'I must be closer. Here is no good. No good at all.'

Lady Cathcart, senior amongst the wives, spoke up in a hard, pitiless voice. 'Look here, you little fool, don't think we don't know what you're up to. The very last thing your husband requires at this moment is you running out to him on the field of battle like some swooning adolescent. Now, we've endured your simpering nonsense all day. A little decorum may not have a place amongst your people, but you should know that amongst the British it is considered quite paramount.'

The other wives nodded, murmuring their agreement. 'Quite paramount, indeed,' echoed one piously.

Lichfield shrugged, smiling weakly, attempting to appear as one who was entirely sympathetic, but whose hands were very firmly tied. 'You must remain here, Mrs Boyce.'

Madeleine decided promptly on another course of action. She gave a heavy sigh. 'Then I shall return to camp,' she said quietly, lifting a limp hand to her brow. 'I fear it is all too much for me. Do not worry, Captain, an escort from my husband's regiment is nearby.' She handed Lichfield his telescope, bade him a sad farewell and started down the hill.

After proceeding a short distance, Madeleine stopped and turned around. The other wives had forgotten her already, returning their attention to the battle; whilst Captain Lichfield was back at the generals' side, receiving some lengthy instructions. The path to his horse was clear.

Madeleine's crinoline obliged her to adopt an awkward side-saddle. The bay, more accustomed to carrying hussars, shifted beneath this strange rider, snorting in bewilderment. She patted its neck soothingly, and urged the horse around the hill, away from its owner and towards the sound of the guns.

They soon arrived at the post road to Sebastopol, a dirt track that ran behind the advance at a rough diagonal. An artillery officer, seeing a lone woman riding in the direction of the fighting, called out to her in alarm. He rushed over in an attempt to take the bay's bridle, but was easily outrun.

Madeleine didn't know precisely what she would do once she was on the battlefield. She imagined finding Richard, pinned down by enemy fire, and galloping to his rescue. Having escaped the fighting, they would then escape the war, and her husband with it, running away together to somewhere they would never be found. She realised that actually bringing this wonderful flight about would be most difficult. Richard could be anywhere in that vast, chaotic valley. And there were other dangersif Nathaniel were to see her out there, he would guess her purpose immediately. Yet Madeleine knew with a terrible certainty that if Richard were to die, she would die also. If there was a chance that she could save him, then she must act or be forever d.a.m.ned. She resolved to brush aside all her fearful doubts and simply respond to events as they unfurled, whilst keeping her object always in mind. Trotting towards the battle along the post road, she felt full of strong, clear-headed determination.

Despite the heavy screen of smoke, the cannon-fire up ahead seemed to be growing ever more intense, as if the gunners were attempting to compensate for the fact that they were firing blind by firing twice as often. Units of British horse artillery had joined the fight, rolling up close behind the lines of infantry. Even at a mile and a half's distance, the sound was quite overpowering. Madeleine wondered how anyone could stand it for more than a couple of minutes. And the landscape, so picturesque only two hours before, had been thoroughly despoiled by the pa.s.sage of the army. Fences, hedges and trees had been blasted away, and soft green fields trampled to mud.

She cleared a low rise in the plain. Before her, at least sixty badly wounded infantrymen had been laid out along the sides of the road, flailing and thrashing in their agony. Bandsmen and a handful of civilian orderlies weaved amongst them, binding wounds as best they could with lengths of lint, and pa.s.sing around canteens of water.

Too late, Madeleine tried to avert her eyes. The bay grew restless, unnerved by the smell of warm blood, lifting its hooves and shaking its head. Then a private, bleeding heavily from the midriff, began to screech in agony as she pa.s.sed, a horribly high-pitched sound, his legs pedalling against the mud as if he were working a treadmill. The horse started, tossing its mane; then it stepped around the wounded man, leaving the post road and heading towards open ground. Madeleine pulled at the reins as hard as she could, but the animal ignored her completely.

She considered calling to the orderlies for a.s.sistance, but something made her hesitate; and before she could change her mind, the bay had quickened its pace to a canter, and she was forced to devote all of her energy to remaining in the saddle. Madeleine flung her arms around the horse's thick neck, and the bay and its helpless rider charged off into the battlefield.

3.

Squinting, Kitson looked out from what remained of the copse. Close by were the soldiers of the 99th, gripping their rifles tightly. They had been lying down under fire now for over an hour. Every one of them was drenched with sweat, and flecked with dirt and blood. Their eyes, milky white in their grimy skin, were staring ahead, alert for incoming fire. The riverside village had all but burned to the ground, and the curtain of smoke was gradually being drawn away by the breeze, revealing their foe. The Russian fortifications, studied close up, seemed virtually impregnable; steep, dark walls of earth behind which bristled a mult.i.tude of musket barrels.

A mounted messenger was galloping along the line. He pulled up next to two senior officers; Kitson recognised Sir George Brown, the General in command of the Light Division, and Sir William Codrington, the Major-General who led Brown's first brigade.

'Here we go, my lads,' murmured Cracknell, spitting on the ground. 'This is it.'

The buglers began sounding the order to advance a moment later. Wearily, the soldiers got up once again, the officers taking their places in front of the long ranks. Raising himself on to his elbows, Kitson surveyed the ground before the army, stretching down to the banks of the River Alma. A significant proportion of the 99th, he saw, would be advancing through a vineyard, alongside the smoking ruins of the village.

'Hardly parade ground conditions, are they?' the senior correspondent said, noting the direction of Kitson's gaze. 'Be interesting indeed to see how they manage this one.'

Kitson did not reply. He was finding Cracknell's zeal for war increasingly unsettling. Neither had he fully recovered from his dismay at the sight of that revolver. It seemed to imply the horrible possibility that Cracknell's ambitions were not rooted solely in the journalistic sphere; that he might seek out a confrontation with the enemy, and attempt to win glory for himself through the spilling of blood.

Boyce remained in clear view, Captain Wray by his side, conferring heatedly with Major Maynard. Before long, the st.u.r.dy Major was dismissed, and sent back to his position on the line. He drew his sword as he walked back towards the ranks, swinging it from left to right as if attempting to ease stiff shoulders. He did not look pleased.

The Lieutenant-Colonel then turned his horse about, stood in his stirrups and addressed his soldiers. 'You men, you're about to go into action. Do not fire until you are ordered. Do not leave the line, for any reasonif you do, you'll taste the lash. You have taken the Queen's shilling, every last one of you, and you will honour your debt to her. I will make sure of it.' The bugles started to sound once again. Boyce raised his voice higher. 'Now, to battle! Advance!'

Cracknell shook with laughter as the army moved off. 'Good Lord, Boyce really knows how to put some fire in his troops, don't he?'

The enemy barrage picked up, pounding into the advancing redcoats. Kitson clenched his fists as tightly as he could and surveyed the a.s.sault. In the centre of the line, an exploding sh.e.l.l cut down five men as if they were made from straw.

'Looks a bit hot down there at the moment,' Cracknell said, lighting a cigar. 'I think we'll make a brief pauseallow them to cover a bit of ground before we pick up the pursuit once again.' He drew out his pocketbook and opened the cover. 'Let's get something down. Observations and the like. While they're still fresh in the mind.'

Kitson nodded and tried to work, but was unable to compose more than fractured notes. A minute or so pa.s.sed; Cracknell asked for another word for 'unstoppable'.

'Inexorable,' Kitson yelled back over the guns.

'Aha.' Cracknell made a correction. 'Of course. I knew that you were on this campaign with good reason, Thomas.'

Kitson smiled mirthlessly and carried on writing.

There were shouts, and the blasts of NCOs' whistles. The senior correspondent closed his book, got to his knees and looked down towards the river. 'Come, gentlemen. It is time for us to follow.' He heaved himself up, and started out on to the battlefield, stepping through the ragged, barely recognisable bodies that fringed the copse as if they were nothing more than fish heads in the gutters of a city market.

Kitson edged over to Styles, who had not moved. The ill.u.s.trator had a piece of paper before him, on which he had succeeded only in making a crude study of a dismembered foot. 'Mr Styles,' he said, 'we are leaving.'

Styles quickly packed away his drawing equipment. He looked profoundly scared. Kitson found that he was strangely rea.s.sured by this, and liked the ill.u.s.trator all the more for it. Fear was the only sane reaction to their current circ.u.mstances, and formed a welcome contrast to the unflinching bravado of their senior. Taking Styles' arm, he helped him to his feet. 'This waytowards the vineyard. Be sure to keep your head down.' Together, they ventured from the copse.

A heavier trail of corpses marked the path of the advance, bodies crumpled on the ground as if they had been dropped from a height, cast aside by some enraged giant. The loose stone wall surrounding the vineyards had been knocked down, swept away by the force of the line, its rocks kicked amongst the vines by the soldiers' boots. Clearing the remains of the wall, they ducked under the canopy of leaves. Cracknell was nowhere to be seen. The red tunics of the soldiers could just be glimpsed up ahead, moving through the closely planted vines. These provided little shelter from the Russian bombardment, shrapnel having torn through branches and men alike. The two Courier Courier men stumbled across a ghastly slick of disgorged innards; Styles fell dizzily to his knees, retching so hard he lost his balance. Kitson leant over him, placing steadying hands on the ill.u.s.trator's shoulders. men stumbled across a ghastly slick of disgorged innards; Styles fell dizzily to his knees, retching so hard he lost his balance. Kitson leant over him, placing steadying hands on the ill.u.s.trator's shoulders.

Cracknell pushed through the vine leaves next to them. 'And what's keeping you two, may I ask?' he demanded. A second later, he noticed the sheet-white Styles. The senior correspondent swore. 'What's the matter with him?' His eyes widened. 'Holy Christ, he hasn't been hit, has he?'

'No, Mr Cracknell, I believe he's-'

Cracknell's interest immediately diminished. 'Then what? A fever?' He turned away, checking the progress of the advancing troops. 'Surely he hasn't been around the miasmas of the camp for long enough to have contracted cholera?'

Kitson shook his head. 'No, sir, it is not that either.' He cleared his throat, bracing himself for a ferocious reaction. 'It is for the best, I think, if we pause again, to recover our bearings.'

The senior correspondent was not listening. His attention was given over entirely to the battle. 'Did you hear that, Thomas?' he asked, raising a forefinger. Kitson looked around vaguely, unable to make out any individual sounds in the h.e.l.lish clamour that enveloped them. 'Muskets! They're within musket rangethey must almost be at the river! Come, we must get closer!'

'A pause, sir, that is all I ask, so we-'

Cracknell stared at his junior in utter astonishment. 'A pause pause? What the devil are you talking about, man? We have to keep up keep up! We have to know know, don't you understand?' His irritation was growing with his impatience.

Kitson's careful detachment, straining throughout this exchange, started to give way. This was the ugly reverse of Cracknell's inspiring idealism and frequent invocation of camaraderie: a savage disdain for those he believed were failing or opposing him. The journey between these two att.i.tudes seemed to be a short one indeed. 'You misunderstand me, Mr Cracknell,' he responded, as calmly as he could. 'I merely wish to do what is in the best interests of the Courier Courier and its correspondents.' and its correspondents.'

The senior correspondent heard none of this. 'Oh, do what you will!' He got to his feet, and started towards the Alma. 'I, at least, intend to do my duty!'

Boyce cleared the vineyard. A shrapnel gash on the mare's side was bleeding on to his left boot, and quite spoiling its shine. He'd tried wiping it with a rag, but this only served to make the problem worse. None of the annals of war, he reflected bitterly, told one that battle was such a confoundedly dirty dirty business. business.

The musket-fire from the enemy positions started like a summer rainstorm. One, then two, then six shots; and then a downpour, the b.a.l.l.s pinging off stones, tearing through vine leaves, and slapping into the mud with hissing plops. Boyce's unlucky mare caught one in her haunch, neighing in distress as she spun around, looking for her a.s.sailant. The Lieutenant-Colonel struggled to rein her in, his eyes fixed on the Russian redoubts. What an uncivilised horde, he thought. Their fire is utterly uncoordinatedhaphazard, even. They have no conception of the basic codes and systems of combat. As he watched, a loose gang of them appeared above a crude parapet directly in front of him, perhaps a hundred and fifty yards up the hill. He could just make out their spiked helmets, and enormous dark moustaches, which were both untrimmed and unwaxedcould there be any plainer indication of their savagery? They did seem awfully close, though, all of a sudden. For the first time that day, Boyce became worried for his safety, and wished that his miserable troops would get the h.e.l.l out of that vineyard.

Slowly, they emerged, in a rough semblance of the line, to be raked by the Russian muskets. Lieutenant Davy, who bore the regimental colours, was shot in the eye. His body folded neatly earthwards, the flag fluttering down after him. The men behind raised their minies, and started to shoot back.

'Hold your fire!' Boyce yelled. 'Hold your fire, d.a.m.n you! Wait for the order! Sergeant, take the names of those men! Lieutenant Nunn, the colours!'

The other battalions of the Light and Second Divisions were arrayed along the gentle slope of the riverbank on either side of the 99th Foot. Marshalled by their officers, they manoeuvred around each other and then plunged into the Alma. Boyce held back until the crossing was well underway, and then urged the mare forward; she leapt in gladly, as if believing that the waters would offer refuge from the battle. The river was cold, and surprisingly fast-flowing. Bullets, sh.e.l.ls and shot from the enemy positions were beating the water to foam, and kicking up brown plumes of silt. Riding out to the middle, Boyce tried his best to enforce the line.

And then he saw him, like a sleek black vole, scurrying along behind the ranks of the 99th, and gingerly stepping out into the Alma. That blasted Irishman, the dishevelled paddy reporter, the one who Madeleine was, waswell, he couldn't even bear to think of it. What the devil was he doing here, Boyce wondered, in the thick of battle, at the moment of glory, soiling it with his despicable presence? He waited until the wretch was out of the shallows, and then spurred his horse towards him.

The mare, her eyes bulging with pain and confusion, almost ran the correspondent down. He was knocked to one side, stumbling headlong into the water. Surfacing, he flailed about in an effort to reclaim his cap, which had fallen off and was now floating away.

'Explain yourself, cur!' snarled Boyce over the thunder of the guns.

Cracknell, having seized the lost cap, pulled it back on. 'Why, Lieutenant-Colonel Boyce,' he grinned, 'fancy us meeting here! D'ye have a word on the battle for the London London Courier Courier?'

'You will fall back fall back!' Boyce cried, pointing furiously in the direction of the vineyard. 'You will remove yourself from the field, this instant!'

Staying mostly submerged, Cracknell's grin grew yet wider. 'I'm a civilian, Boyce,' he replied tauntingly. 'You can't give me orders, y'know!'