The Street Philosopher (18 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lean man tipped his cap. ‘Miss Wade,’ he said apologetically, as if embarrassed on his senior’s behalf.

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

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

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

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

‘And one has to be so damnably careful, what with these blasted prying civilians wandering about–newspapermen and so forth.’

‘The middle classes know nothing of the right to acquire, damn them,’ Retford agreed. ‘They think it so bloody charming when the common soldiery lift Russian uniforms or horses, or whatever blasted souvenirs they can lay their
filthy hands on–but when a gentleman’s eye happens upon an antiquity, the blighters call
it theft
. Or they bleat on about museums, about putting the object in some ghastly public gallery to be gawped at by the ignorant million…’

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

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

‘How the devil d’you know where to find that?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘So you are on board?’

‘Of course. I will do whatever is required.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Not again, damn him,’ he swore, spurring his grey. ‘This
will not
happen again.’

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

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

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

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

‘Christ above!’ shouted Nunn, ‘’tis far beyond the Alma!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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