The Street Philosopher Part 21

Robert Styles was sitting in the middle of the dirt floor, lit ghoulishly by the embers of a dying fire. A winding vine of smoke curled up and out through a ragged hole that had been sawn out of the tent's roof. Cracknell's writing desk had been pushed roughly to one side. Heaped upon it was a ma.s.s of drawings, some heavily worked up, others a mere handful of pencil strokes. They had been made on any available sc.r.a.ps of paper, over maps, newspapers and even pages of his own handwritten notes, left behind when he had gone to Balaclava. Their subject, of course, was the underbelly of the campaign: death, disease, emaciation and madness, rendered with horrible precision. Cracknell grimaced with distaste. They were like visions of the b.l.o.o.d.y Apocalypse.

All the other furniture, the stools, stoves and sea-chests, had been crammed unceremoniously into what had once been bed alcoves. There was no useable bedding in sight. It was clear from Styles' appearance that he was sleeping on the ground like a man of the line. He was dressed in a stained green jacket that must once have belonged to a private from the Rifle Brigade. A black forage cap lay by his side, and an old greatcoat was draped around his shoulders. Mud crusted his clothes, and one of his legs was dark with dried blood. His beard was unkempt, matted and colourless, and he was painfully thin, his sun-tanned skin stretched tight over his bones. He was drawing, his wasted hand darting across the paper.

The senior correspondent stood in stunned silence. He remembered that he'd never quite got round to ascertaining that Styles had left the Crimea. His a.s.sumption had been that the ill.u.s.trator was s.h.i.+pped out after being wounded that Januarynot unreasonable, he felt, considering that Madeleine and her friend had laid him out on the quay at Balaclava. That the boy had vanished soon afterwards was deeply unfortunate, but hardly uncommon. Cracknell had asked O'Farrell to pa.s.s on his condolences to the family.

Kitson, on the other hand, he'd known about. Balaclava's churning rumour-mill soon reported that his one-time junior was at work in Mrs Seacole's British Hotel. This was a lamentable dereliction of dutya desertion, in fact. It was also completely predictable. The art correspondent, unable to cope with the turmoil of battle, had removed himself to a safe distance, playing nurse to ease his guilty conscience. Contemptible, but there it was. This, thoughthis felt as if he'd arrived home from a lengthy trip abroad to discover that the forgotten fern in his window, which should have died quietly, had actually grown to a supernatural size, engulfing his entire house.

'Mr Styles, what the devil are you doing here?' Cracknell said abruptly, in a loud voice that held both humour and a note of confrontation.

The ill.u.s.trator stopped work and looked up at him. He did not speak, or offer any expression, either of welcome or dislike, at the return of the Tomahawk. But Cracknell fancied that he could see something stir in those sunken eyes. A touch unnerved, the correspondent decided to use a more openly amicable approach. He went down on his haunches, and threw the b.u.t.t of the cigarette he'd been smoking on the fire. It was fuelled, he now saw, with the stocks of dismantled Russian muskets, some of which were patterned with elaborate carvings.

'How's the leg?' he asked with gruff warmth, forcing himself to look at Styles. His complexion had the texture of old cloth, with earth rubbed into its very fibre; Cracknell caught a whiff of old clothes and decaying gums. 'A bit better, I hope? Upon my life, you're as sun-browned as a b.l.o.o.d.y blue-jacket! Quite some change, young sir; quite some change.'

Styles did not reply. He went back to his sketch.

Casting his mind back to his last days on the plateau, Cracknell recalled the occasional sense that someone was moving around just outside, hovering on the edge of the tent's stone foundations. At the time, he had imagined it was some vengeful soldier trying to put the fear into him. Now he was beginning to think differently. 'When did you move yourself in here?'

Still Styles said nothing.

Cracknell raised an eyebrow, and took a bundle of cigarettes from his pocket. 'Well, I have been lodging in Balaclava these past few monthson Courier Courier business, y'understand.' business, y'understand.'

The London Courier London Courier, in truth, had been a secondary reason for the Tomahawk's relocation. Rather more prominent had been the issue of Madeleine Boyce and her husband. In the weeks after that memorable night in the Courier Courier tent, they had grown rash, meeting in the Boyces' farmhouse with greater regularity. There had been a series of abominably close shaves, Cracknell managing to leave literally a tent, they had grown rash, meeting in the Boyces' farmhouse with greater regularity. There had been a series of abominably close shaves, Cracknell managing to leave literally a single single second second before the cuckold made his entrance. He was perfectly happy to beat a rapid retreat every once in a whilehe found it stimulating, in fact. Such situations, however, had been getting a little too frequent for comfort. He had started to feel that Madeleine was deliberately courting them. There was a marked carelessness in her treatment of their arrangements. 'Now, Maddy, you're quite certain that Nathaniel is on duty for the entire morning?' he might ask. 'Oh yes,' she would reply airily; and then they would be interrupted, often whilst in full flight, by the sound of a booted foot upon the stoop. before the cuckold made his entrance. He was perfectly happy to beat a rapid retreat every once in a whilehe found it stimulating, in fact. Such situations, however, had been getting a little too frequent for comfort. He had started to feel that Madeleine was deliberately courting them. There was a marked carelessness in her treatment of their arrangements. 'Now, Maddy, you're quite certain that Nathaniel is on duty for the entire morning?' he might ask. 'Oh yes,' she would reply airily; and then they would be interrupted, often whilst in full flight, by the sound of a booted foot upon the stoop.

She was becoming unbalanced. Her demands for declarations of his fidelity and unwavering pa.s.sion grew yet more frequent and more desperate; and his responses, delivered as convincingly as ever, plainly no longer satisfied her. It was the awful tension of the siege, Cracknell had theorised. It was preying on her reason, leading her to desire, even to prompt, dramatic conclusions. But whatever the explanation, it was all growing somewhat perilous, for both of them. He had decided that it would be best if he removed himself from the camps, and from the Boyces, for an indefinite period of time. Madeleine had not taken this at all well, of course. Cracknell had managed to calm her only with elaborate plans of the escape they would make together when he returned for her later in the campaign. They would go to southern Spain, he promised, to the orange-groves of Andalusia. There would be a pretty, sun-kissed villa with a view of the ocean, many thousands of miles beyond the reach of Nathaniel Boyce; there would be children, a family, a future filled with love and happiness. Eventually, tearfully, she had agreed to let him go.

Cracknell offered the bundle of cigarettes to Styles. Unexpectedly, the ill.u.s.trator accepted, pulling out three of the crooked paper tubes. Two went in the pocket of his green jacket, the other in his mouth; he lit it, not sharing the match with Cracknell. 'Have you been to Balaclava lately, Styles?' There was no response. Cracknell lit his own cigarette. 'You would find it much improved, my friend. Place is almost English in aspect, these days. Provisions of all sorts are in plentiful supplyincluding, quite unbelievably, winter clothing for the troops. Winter clothes, in June! They all say that they're expecting their summer dress by Christmas. It would be amusing, would it not, if this idiocy had not consigned so many to their graves.'

Styles stayed quiet. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he started applying shade to a form which, even viewing it upside down, Cracknell could tell was a cadaver of some kind.

'The Turks are gone as well, thank Christ. There are a number of shops now, a restaurant, a telegraph officewhich is very useful for us, as you might imagine. I even saw a b.l.o.o.d.y photographer photographer last month, taking views of the harbour. Fenton's his namethey say he's been up in the camps as well. Some compet.i.tion for you artists there, eh, Styles!' The ill.u.s.trator did not react. Cracknell took the cigarette from between his lips and moved closer to the fire, sitting himself on the floor. 'And would you credit it,' he went on slyly, 'I've also discovered a few wh.o.r.es at work amongst the cottages. Doing a brisk trade, of course. Why, I had to make my appointments daysnay, weeks in advance!' last month, taking views of the harbour. Fenton's his namethey say he's been up in the camps as well. Some compet.i.tion for you artists there, eh, Styles!' The ill.u.s.trator did not react. Cracknell took the cigarette from between his lips and moved closer to the fire, sitting himself on the floor. 'And would you credit it,' he went on slyly, 'I've also discovered a few wh.o.r.es at work amongst the cottages. Doing a brisk trade, of course. Why, I had to make my appointments daysnay, weeks in advance!'

This joking revelation had been intended to foster a bit of manly bonhomie between them, and perhaps elicit a knowing chuckle from his grimy companionafter all, he was a young man, was he not? The travails of the romping gent, in Cracknell's judgement, were of universal amus.e.m.e.nt to the male of the species, and especially to its hot-blooded youth. In this, however, as in so much else, Robert Styles was a disappointment to his s.e.x. He breathed out a great cloud of smoke, those eyes now glinting with an unmistakable malevolence. He seemed to be gathering up his energy. Cracknell realised that Styles was preparing himself to speak, something he clearly hadn't done in some time.

'Why are you back?' he demanded, his voice a hoa.r.s.e snarl.

Cracknell, slightly thrown by the violence of this utterance, paused for a moment. He sucked on his cigarette. Well done, Mr Styles, he thought, I was very nearly worried for a moment there. Very nearly.

'There is to be a great attack this morning,' he replied, hardening his manner. 'Did you not hear the early parades? They are to storm the Great Redan. It will be an advance over two hundred yards of open ground, straight at a solid wall of Russian cannon. The French are doing the same further down the line, against the equally redoubtable Malakhoff Tower. A lunatic plan, if you ask me, devised by desperate, unimaginative generals who are entirely out of ideas.' Cracknell laughed mirthlessly as he studied the end of his cigarette. 'But, Styles, strangely enough, they didn't didn't think to ask me.' think to ask me.'

Looking over at the strange figure before him, the senior correspondent suddenly decided that the best course of action was to re-a.s.sert their professional relations.h.i.+pto knock the dust off the contract that gave him authority over the boy, and impose a much-needed sense of hierarchy on Styles' disordered mind.

'It is my duty to witness this piece of folly for the readers of the Courier Courier,' Cracknell stated firmly, pulling out his dented silver hip-flask. 'And, I might add, yours also. Your bond to O'Farrell still holds, lad. I see that your muse has not deserted you. Let's see if we can coax a publishable scene out of that obstinate pencil of yours, shall we? A view of the Redan from the forward trenches, perhaps?' He pointed a stern, stubby finger in Styles' expressionless face. 'Just be certain to follow my lead, d'ye hear? And keep a tight hold of your nerveyou'll sure as h.e.l.l have need of it.'

The ill.u.s.trator stopped drawing, threw his half-smoked cigarette aside and got up. Carelessly, he added his latest piece of work to the drift of papers atop the desk.

Cracknell gave the flask a shake; it was empty. With mild irritation, he realised that he had forgotten to fill it before leaving Balaclava. He set it down by the fire and consulted a scratched bra.s.s watch. 'I have someone to see before heading for the frontan old pal from the 57th who says he has information for me. I suggest we meet before the Quarries in, say, half an hour.' He hesitated, and then said with heavy emphasis, 'Can you manage that?'

Styles gave the very slightest of nods. His aggression had left him as quickly as it had appeared. Beneath the dirt, Cracknell fancied, the ill.u.s.trator now had an almost juvenile aspect; he began gathering up his equipment with schoolboy haste. This was going rather well, despite all their past differences. The Tomahawk was finding that the notion of having a subordinate at his side once again was oddly appealing.

Cracknell flicked some ash from his cigarette and then took another pull. 'You realise, I take it, that Kitson has gone. He has abandoned to Courier Courier, abandoned us us, to work over at that glorified pot-house on the Balaclava road.'

Styles, rummaging through a heap of tarnished military equipment piled in the tent's far corner, did not answer. Kitson's fate was clearly of little interest to him.

The senior correspondent rose to his feet with a groan. 'This hardly matters, of course. We two are the Courier Courier team now, Mr Styles. You and I, valorous and unstoppable!' He almost reached out to grip Styles' bony shoulder, but thought better of it. He glanced down at his companion's bloodied trouser leg. 'You team now, Mr Styles. You and I, valorous and unstoppable!' He almost reached out to grip Styles' bony shoulder, but thought better of it. He glanced down at his companion's bloodied trouser leg. 'You are are fit for this, aren't you?' fit for this, aren't you?'

Styles straightened up and moved out of the corner towards the tent flaps. Cracknell started when he saw the pistol; a second later, he recognised it as his own neglected revolver. The ill.u.s.trator must have broken into his sea-chest and found it there. He'd quite forgotten that he owned the d.a.m.ned thing. The gun, liberally smeared with black grease, seemed enormous in Styles' bony hand. He span the chamber with apparent expertise, wiped the pistol on the arm of his jacket and then pushed it into his belt.

For an instant, Cracknell found himself looking straight into the boy's yellowed eye. It brimmed with bitter contempt.

'I will be at the Quarries,' Styles muttered as he left the tent.

4.

Boyce held the worn, much-handled sheet of paper between finger and thumb, turning it over slowly in the candlelight. Nunn's nervous, simple face stared back at him from the other side of the tent. Twisting the left point of his moustache, Boyce made himself study the drawing on the sheet a second time. The Colonel knew his art. He had learned it at his father's side, in the family picture gallery, and had toured Italy as a young man in order to see for himself the very best that mankind had produced. Such knowledge, he had been raised to believe, was among the qualifications of a gentleman. He could tell, as he examined the lines and shading, that this image was too realistic, too painstaking in its observation of incidental details to be a production of prurient fantasy. It had to be admitted also that it was the work of a man of true talent. The likenesses were quite remarkable.

Boyce found that he was immensely tired. The vitalising excitement that had filled him only a few minutes earlier, as he stood watching the columns of the 99th start for the Quarries, had drained away completely. Sitting there in the shabby tent, he had to stifle a yawn. He was far too fatigued for anger. His mind was dull, indifferent, empty. He rubbed his itching eyes with a leather-gloved knuckle.

'There are more?' he asked eventually.

By way of reply, Nunn pa.s.sed over four or five other sheets, all in a similar condition to the first. The sketches upon them were of the same subject, broadly speaking, and were equally graphic in their treatment; but they showed later moments in the act, different arrangements and practices. Boyce winced to look upon them, knowing that these were scenes with which he was now burdened for the remainder of his days.

'And you found them upon whom, exactly?'

'Private Cregg, Colonel. From Third Company.'

'Cregg... the name's familiar. Is he regularly punished?'

'Yes, Colonel. I believe we have flogged him eight times now, over the course of the campaign.'

Sighing heavily, Boyce dropped the sketches into a loose pile. As he rose from his chair, flexing his stiff knee-high boots, he caught sight of himself in a looking gla.s.s propped up in a dark corner of the tent. It was not a pleasing prospect. He was dressed in the current uniform decreed for officers on trench duty, which he considered to be quite absurd. Over a plain sh.e.l.l jacket, he was obliged to wear a ridiculous short tweed coat, lined with cheap, moth-eaten fur, and on his head he sported one of those abominably seedy forage caps. The moustache did manage, as ever, to lend him some gravity; but still, over all, he felt he had the appearance of First Ruffian in some strolling players' sensational tragedy. He turned away sharply.

Boyce had meant to take action a good deal earlier. Some months back, he'd almost caught them togetherhe'd been certain of it. The gossip-mongers, catching wind of this incident, had grown busy once again. The Colonel had felt their mocking eyes upon him, and heard their wicked tongues clacking in his wake. The weight of provocation quickly became unbearable. He had resolved to give that fiend from the Courier Courier a good horse-whipping, to demonstrate to the blackguard that he was up against a man of honour, who would go to some lengths to preserve it. But the cunning fat fox he hunted had somehow got scent of the hounds, and fled to some burrow or other; and, sensing traps, had also begun to keep well away from the henhouse. Before long, it was clear that the affair had cooled. Madeleine became yet more uncommunicative, if that were possible, retreating to her room as soon as she returned from her morning expeditions with Miss Wade. a good horse-whipping, to demonstrate to the blackguard that he was up against a man of honour, who would go to some lengths to preserve it. But the cunning fat fox he hunted had somehow got scent of the hounds, and fled to some burrow or other; and, sensing traps, had also begun to keep well away from the henhouse. Before long, it was clear that the affair had cooled. Madeleine became yet more uncommunicative, if that were possible, retreating to her room as soon as she returned from her morning expeditions with Miss Wade.

The Colonel's occasional efforts to wring information out of her yielded nothing. Her spirit had been sapped utterly. She cared not how hard she was struck, and endured whatever brutal attentions he felt inclined to force upon her without protestindeed, without any visible response. At times, when they convened in his farmhouse, the officers of the 99th could hear her sobs through the walls. The pressures of the campaign, Boyce told them; the sights of war are bound to take an inevitable toll on the female mind.

He had been satisfied, in the short term at least. She was suffering, that much was plainwhich was all well and good as far as he was concerned. Let it be some small castigation, he'd thought harshly, for the filth she has flung against my name. And when this is all over, when we have won this d.a.m.ned war and returned to England, some changes will be made, changes that young Madeleine will not find to her liking.

Yet now, many weeks later, this had been brought before him, as if from nowhere. It was taking some time for the full consequences to impress themselves upon Boyce's weary mind. Weathering rumour and his own suspicions was one thing. But thissketches taken from the hands of a private soldier, after they had been seen by G.o.d only knows how many otherswas quite another. He looked down at the image on the top of the pile. Madeleine was straddling her lover with her back to the artist. The Irishman's s.c.r.o.t.u.m could be seen, dark and shrivelled beneath the smooth white curves of her b.u.t.tocks, nestled between his thick, hairy thighs. Both, Boyce noticed, were wearing boots, and the discarded clothing around them seemed appropriate for the depths of winter. These drawings were some months old.

'And he was showing these around? To other private soldiers?'

Nunn swallowed hard. 'He was, Colonel.'

'Were there officers present?'

Nunn hesitated, blinking, opening his mouth to speak and then shutting it again.

'Mr Nunn,' said Boyce, now with menace in his voice, 'answer me, d.a.m.n you. Were there men of rank present?'

Nunn stood as if at attention, his square chin in the air. 'Yes, Colonel.'

Boyce lowered his head. 'What division?'

'The Light, sir. And the Fourth, if I'm not mistakenthe 18th Regiment of Foot.'

Boyce fell silent for a long time. It was over. They would all talk, of course they would. His disgrace, his dishonour would spread through the army faster than the blasted cholera. No high post for him; no, his career was effectively finished. No one would be able even to look him in the eye without having to suppress a laugh. Such was the fate of the betrayed husband, the cuckoldhe became a laughing stock for all.

'This is a brave thing you have done here, Mr Nunn,' he said at last, 'bringing these to me. You are a brave man.'

'Thank you, Colonel.'

'You are wasted as an adjutant, I see that now. A soldier of your mettle belongs on the open field, leading the troops, not fretting over the safety of his superiors.'

'My only wish is to serve the Queen, Colonel, in whatever post is deemed right for me. It is an honour-'

'Of course, of course.' Boyce cleared his throat. 'I've decided to relieve you of your responsibility to me, Mr Nunn, and rea.s.sign you to the first line. You will go from here and take your rightful place in the Forlorn Hope.'

Nunn blinked again. This, as Boyce knew well, was the stuff of his youthful dreams. Tales of the Forlorn Hopethose n.o.ble, heroic souls responsible for the triumphant sieges of the Peninsular Warwere in large part responsible for the boy's early decision to embark upon a life of soldiering. 'Sir, I-'

'Think of it, man!' Boyce boomed over him. The moustache quivered slightly, as if electrified. 'This is the final obstacle before us. This fort is Russia itself. When it crumbles, the Bear will crumble soon after. We must be bold, and advance. And I'm permitting you to be at the front of that advanceto win a victory to rival that achieved by the Iron Duke at the fortresses of Badajoz, or Ciudad, or San Sebastian. The frontal a.s.sault, Mr Nunn, as a part of the Forlorn Hope! There is nothing more gallant, nothing in all of soldiering. Were it not for the responsibilities of command I would be there alongside you. I envy you, sir. I envy you this great chance for glory.'

The Lieutenant, poor fool, was almost choked with pride. 'Colonel, I can only hope that I prove worthy of the faith you have placed in me.'

Boyce nodded. 'Go forward, then, into the trenches, and report to Colonel Yea of the 34th. Know that the 99th will be directly behind you. Good luck, Mr Nunn. We will shake hands atop the Redan.'

Nunn saluted and turned on his heel, making to leave. 'One more thing,' Boyce added, stopping the Lieutenant in his tracks. 'This man Cregg. A thoroughgoing rapscallion?'

Nunn pulled himself back to attention, and nodded. 'Of the very lowest kind, Colonel, despite his long service.'

Boyce picked up the drawings, rolling them into a tight tube. 'Would such a man, in your opinion, benefit from the same opportunity I have given to you?'

'From a place in the Forlorn Hope? It would certainly do him no harm, Colonel,' replied Nunn guilelessly.

'See to it. That will be all, Mr Nunn.'

A quarter of an hour later, Boyce emerged from the tent, the sketches safely inside his sh.e.l.l jacket. Lieutenant-Colonel Fairlie and Major Pierce were sitting nearby, dressed for battle. Fairlie was puffing idly on a cherry-wood pipe, leaning back on his fold-down chair with his highly polished boots up on the low crate that rested between them. He was studying a map of the Russian fortifications by the light of a small oil lamp, his neat grey beard and furrowed brow giving him a donnish air. There was no outward sign of nerves about him, but then Joseph Fairlie was famously cool-headed. This made him an effective officer, whose undeniable achievements during the taking of the Quarries had obliged Boyce to elevate him to his present rank. The loutish Pierce was more obviously apprehensive. He was hunched forward in his seat, his blond, straw-like hair poking out from beneath his cap, forcing himself to read a newspaper. The thin, tightly printed pages s.h.i.+vered slightly in his grasp. Both men stood as he approached.

'Where was young Nunn off to, sir?' asked Pierce. 'Seemed in a dreadful hurry.'

'He came to me asking to join the Forlorn Hope,' Boyce replied. 'I saw no reason not to grant him this request.'

'b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l,' murmured Fairlie, clearly impressed, 'rather him than me.'

Boyce looked down at Pierce's paper. It was the London London Courier Courier. After a report in February had included a particularly scathingand widely-readdescription of a freezing, half-starved sentry of the 99th standing guard outside a farmhouse whilst his officers feasted and laughed within, he had prohibited his officers from so much as picking up a copy of the despicable publication.

Pierce followed his gaze. 'Apologies, Colonel,' he said, diffident and a little shamefaced. 'Just trying to keep up with the snakesee which way he slithers and all that.'

'And?'

The Major cleared his throat. 'Oh, he's all incensed about some trip up the coast that was mounted a few weeks ago,' he replied. 'A joint force was a.s.sembled to take a Russian supply portplace called Kerch. The Turks destroyed a museum, apparently, and went on a bit of a rampage, abusing the locals and so forth. French had to shoot a few of 'em before they'd desist.'

Fairlie tamped down his pipe-bowl with his thumb. 'Hardly surprising.'

Boyce s.n.a.t.c.hed the copy of the Courier Courier from Pierce's hands and quickly located the column headed 'Crimean Dispatches from the Famous Tomahawk of the from Pierce's hands and quickly located the column headed 'Crimean Dispatches from the Famous Tomahawk of the Courier' Courier'. His eyes flitted over the account of the action at the supply portheavily biased drivel, as usualslowing only as they reached the closing paragraphs.

So the operation at Kerch was a success, but one has to ask how it could have been otherwise. It was an unopposed landingyet it could have been otherwise. It was an unopposed landingyet even so innocent people died needlessly due to the callous oversight even so innocent people died needlessly due to the callous oversight of those in command. There was failure, then, even in victory; but of those in command. There was failure, then, even in victory; but this correspondent finds himself saddened by the inescapable reflection this correspondent finds himself saddened by the inescapable reflection that our forces have failed in almost everything they have that our forces have failed in almost everything they have attempted. The explanation for this lies in their leaders, who have attempted. The explanation for this lies in their leaders, who have been appointed with no reference to merit, and been allowed to been appointed with no reference to merit, and been allowed to remain in their posts even after horrific displays of inept.i.tude. remain in their posts even after horrific displays of inept.i.tude.

Our commander-in-chief missed the opportunity of taking Sebastopol when it lay virtually undefended; and, like so many of Sebastopol when it lay virtually undefended; and, like so many of his officers, he sat complacently in a nice warm farmhouse whilst his officers, he sat complacently in a nice warm farmhouse whilst a savage winter devoured his army. But he is the son of a lord, and a savage winter devoured his army. But he is the son of a lord, and is well connected on both sides of the Commons, so he remains in is well connected on both sides of the Commons, so he remains in his post. Our Quartermaster-General, to select another, has good his post. Our Quartermaster-General, to select another, has good interest at the Horse Guards, and several n.o.ble friends besides, and interest at the Horse Guards, and several n.o.ble friends besides, and so receives and retains an appointment for which no one believes so receives and retains an appointment for which no one believes him qualified. There are countless other examples in the Cavalry, him qualified. There are countless other examples in the Cavalry, the Infantry, the Transport Service; one simply has to choose a department the Infantry, the Transport Service; one simply has to choose a department and and corruption's corruption's taint can be found. taint can be found.

One thing, however, must be understood: all abuses of privilege out here in the Crimea are but fruit of a rotten tree. Back in England, out here in the Crimea are but fruit of a rotten tree. Back in England, a man is made war minister because he is a duke; another becomes a man is made war minister because he is a duke; another becomes a war secretary because he is that a war secretary because he is that duke's duke's cousin. Our government cousin. Our government and army are parcelled out as if they were aristocratic estatesrather and army are parcelled out as if they were aristocratic estatesrather than great public trusts to be employed for the benefit of the people. than great public trusts to be employed for the benefit of the people.

The Colonel could read no more. He screwed up the paper and cast it to the ground. Even though it did not specifically address him, Boyce could see the oblique references plainly enoughthe warm farmhouse, the charge of corruption against the Quartermaster-General. 'Fruit of a rotten tree indeed,' he spat. 'd.a.m.n that fellow!'

Pierce nodded. 'Treasonous dog should be hanged, posthaste. I've been saying so for months.'

Fairlie puffed on his pipe, a contemplative look on his face. 'Is there not truth to some of it, though? What he says about that old rascal Pam, for instance?'

Boyce glared at him. 'There most certainly is not not, Lieutenant-Colonel! Lord Palmerston deserves the support of every patriotic Englishman. This ... this filth filth should be countered. It should be b.l.o.o.d.y well should be countered. It should be b.l.o.o.d.y well stopped stopped. The blackguard has gone too far.'

'Quite,' Pierce agreed loyally. 'Someone should publish the details of how he he conducts himself. See how his precious reputation looks then.' conducts himself. See how his precious reputation looks then.'

The determination to act was setting hard in Boyce's mind. 'Does anyone know where he is?'

His officers glanced at each other. 'Balaclava's our best guess,' said Pierce. 'He didn't show at the Quarries for some reason, but today's action might draw him out.'

Boyce looked around at the hundreds hurrying through the camp of the Light Division to their appointed posts. He straightened his jacket; the sketches rustled slightly against his chest.

'Go to the men,' he ordered. 'I will join you shortly. There is something that requires my attention.'

5.

Madeleine could not sleep. Pulling her sheets around her, she had moved to the chair by the window, and was watching the columns of soldiers trudging along the murky road outside the farmhouse. This movement of troops had been going on for some time now; she knew that the Guardsmen that were then filing past were part of the reserve force. Those unfortunate enough to be at the front of the attack would already be in place. She prayed ardently that the sun would stay down, that the day would not arrive, that the great a.s.sault would not begin, that hundreds of those men who had marched past her window would not soon be sent out to meet horrible deaths. But the light of the coming morning could just be made out, colouring the clear sky along the very edge of the horizon.

Annabel would be at the door of the Boyces' farmhouse at five o'clock, ready to head towards the battlefield. Madeleine was dreading the purposeful knocks that would summon her forth to the hospital tents of the Middle Ravine. Since the supply lines had improved, and the provision of food and clothing to the soldiers had ceased to be such a serious issue, her indefatigable companion had decided that it was best that they redirect their energies towards providing medical a.s.sistance. Madeleine had grown accustomed to dis.h.i.+ng out soup, or woollen hats, or cheese; but she was certainly not accustomed to nursing writhing, sweating, bleeding men, some torn open or missing limbs, who forced out their last words in terrifying, frenzied barks, and grabbed at her with all their strength. It was too much for her to bear. She often had to excuse herself and return to her bed. Weeping between the cold sheets, she would imagine Richard being brought to her in the Ravine, his innards unwinding bloodily into her arms, and there being nothing that she could do to save him.

It was the uncertainty that particularly tormented her. The weeks since he had departed were slowly mounting up into months. No word was sent as to his new location. Desolation crept into Madeleine; a dark part of her began to believe that he would never return, that she was stranded with no hope of release. Her last sight of him had been from this very window. It had been early morning. Nathaniel, returning from the trenches, had just slammed the front door behind him. Richard had been racing from the farmyard, as he had done so many times before, half-dressed with his arms full of clothing, leaving a trail of frosty breath behind him in the chill February air. What had happened to him after this, after he had vanished behind the yard's dry-stone wall, she could not say.