The Street Philosopher (34 page)

‘Why are you back?’ he demanded, his voice a hoarse 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
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-assert their professional relationship–to 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
,’ 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 nerve–you’ll sure as hell have need of it.’

The illustrator 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 brass watch. ‘I have someone to see before heading for the front–an 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 illustrator 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
, abandoned
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
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
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 illustrator must have broken into his sea-chest and found it there. He’d quite forgotten that he owned the
damned 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.

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 passed 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 glass 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 shell 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 together–he’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
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 protest–indeed, 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 plain–which 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 damned 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 this–sketches taken from the hands of a private soldier, after they had been seen by God only knows how many others–was 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 scrotum could be seen, dark and shrivelled beneath the smooth white curves of her buttocks, 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, damn 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 mistaken–the 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 cuckold–he 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 reassign 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 Hope–those noble, heroic souls responsible for the triumphant sieges of the Peninsular War–were 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 advance–to win a victory to rival that achieved by
the Iron Duke at the fortresses of Badajoz, or Ciudad, or San Sebastian. The frontal assault, 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 shell 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 shivered 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.’

‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Fairlie, clearly impressed, ‘rather him than me.’

Boyce looked down at Pierce’s paper. It was the
London
Courier
. After a report in February had included a particularly scathing–and widely-read–description 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 snake–see 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 assembled to take a Russian supply port–place 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 snatched the copy of the
Courier
from Pierce’s hands and quickly located the column headed ‘Crimean Dispatches from the Famous Tomahawk of the
Courier’
. His eyes flitted over the account of the action at the supply port–heavily biased drivel, as usual–slowing 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 landing–yet
even so innocent people died needlessly due to the callous oversight
of those in command. There was failure, then, even in victory; but
this correspondent finds himself saddened by the inescapable reflection
that our forces have failed in almost everything they have
attempted. The explanation for this lies in their leaders, who have
been appointed with no reference to merit, and been allowed to
remain in their posts even after horrific displays of ineptitude.

Our commander-
in-
chief missed the opportunity of taking
Sebastopol when it lay virtually undefended; and, like so many of
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
is well connected on both sides of the Commons, so he remains in
his post. Our Quartermaster-General, to select another, has good
interest at the Horse Guards, and several noble friends besides, and
so receives and retains an appointment for which no one believes
him qualified. There are countless other examples in the Cavalry,
the Infantry, the Transport Service; one simply has to choose a department
and
corruption’s
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,
a man is made war minister because he is a duke; another becomes
a war secretary because he is that
duke’s
cousin. Our government
and army are parcelled out as if they were aristocratic estates–rather
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 enough–the warm farmhouse, the charge of corruption against the Quartermaster-General. ‘Fruit of a rotten tree indeed,’ he spat. ‘Damn 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
, Lieutenant-Colonel! Lord Palmerston deserves the support of every patriotic Englishman. This … this
filth
should be countered. It should be bloody well
stopped
. The blackguard has gone too far.’