The Street Philosopher (12 page)

The pavilion was deserted. Several dozen chairs, all finely carved and polished, stood abandoned inside it. A once-neat crescent arrangement had been knocked to a jumble by the haste with which those who had so recently sat there watching the battle had departed for Sebastopol. A rich oriental rug had been spread out across the grass, and then kicked up by fleeing heels; champagne bottles, still dewy from having been packed in ice, huddled together in its folds like fat black fishes. Cracknell prodded a couple with his boot to discover if they contained anything. He was rewarded only with a hollow clunking sound.

Crunching his way over broken glasses, the senior correspondent noted that the striped canvas of the awning had been torn open by shrapnel. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, which was now almost dry, Cracknell took out a bundle of small, yellowish cigarettes, purchased from a Guards officer in the greater redoubt. He had done this somewhat reluctantly, having abjured the damned things in the past in favour of God’s honest cigar, but these were desperate times. Experimentally, he put one in his mouth and lit it. The Turkish tobacco was a touch rough, but it slid down easily enough, warming the passages and bringing that familiar, tingling sense of quietude. Cracknell sucked deep and took in the Heights of the Alma Valley.

It was a victory. Out on the Black Sea, gunboats were ringing their bells and firing off salutes. A panoply of Allied
infantry, from kilted Highlanders to red-trousered French Zoaves, crowded along the hilltops, letting out hearty cheers. Men from the Coldstream Guards had climbed atop the largest Russian fortification to raise the Union Jack, their bearskins lined up against the early evening sky like so many match-heads. The Allied armies had carried the day, and he, Richard Patrick Cracknell of the
London Courier
, had been there to witness it. A multitude of vivid recollections vied for prominence in his mind: the fusillades ripping back and forth through the air, the bestial frenzy of the bayonet fight, the strange, keening cry the Russians made as they swarmed out from their earthworks. He had accomplished his goal. He had seen battle up close–and it was astounding material.

But then he turned north, moving around the spectators’ pavilion so that he could see the wide plain beyond. It was strewn with debris jettisoned from the retreating Russian Army, which could still be seen clearly as it marched back towards the Crimean capital in long, ordered columns. Not a hundred yards from where he stood was the Light Brigade–a full thousand troopers bristling with lances and sabres. The cavalrymen had scaled the Heights in the battle’s closing stages and were now eager to go after the Russians, to attack whilst the enemy was at a pronounced disadvantage.

The order to do so, however, had not arrived. The glittering ranks of hussars, lancers and light dragoons were straining visibly, desperate to be off, like riders in some Olympian steeplechase; but for them, the starter’s gun would not sound. Cracknell blew out a lungful of smoke. He could hear the horses’ impatient snorts and the stamping of their hooves, and the angry, uncomprehending exchanges of the officers. These two elements, the jubilation on the Heights, and the immense frustration out on the plain, felt at that moment like the two conflicting sides of his own mind; a decisive victory had been won, yet now, for no possible reason that Cracknell could see other than cautious stupidity, the generals were failing signally to capitalise upon it.

Major Maynard appeared, bearing a bundle of dispatch paper and a couple of well-chewed pencils. ‘Here you are, you reprobate. Remind me again why I help you.’

Cracknell rounded on him, flicking away his cigarette. ‘What the deuce is going on, Maynard? Why doesn’t Raglan give the bloody order to pursue? This ever-so-organised retreat could become a full rout–the war could end today!’

Maynard was stained with blood, mud and gunpowder, and his round face was scored with exhaustion. One of his epaulettes was missing, and his sleeve had taken a slice from a sword. ‘I–I really cannot say.’

Cracknell took the pencil and paper, shaking his head. ‘This is gross incompetence. There really is no other word. To be unable to keep an army free from disease, or well fed and sheltered is one thing–but to not know how to
fight
with it
is quite another! Prince Menshikov and his generals got a damned good look at our army this afternoon, Maynard–they’ll be running back to Sebastopol to build up their defences, and most likely wire Moscow for reinforcements!’

‘What do you want from me, Cracknell?’ There was exasperation in Maynard’s voice. ‘What do you suggest I do?’

Remembering who he was talking to, Cracknell softened his manner a little. ‘Not you, Major, not you. You are a gallant hero, sir, you and all the others who came up that wretched hill.’ He looked around for something to lean against so that he could start to write. ‘But this cannot be overlooked. How the hell can I report only our triumphs when the old fools in command are committing the fighting men to many more such battles with their inexplicable inaction? I shall do something about this, Maynard–you’ll see.’

Major Maynard’s sigh became a weary chuckle. Never had he met a man so sure of his own righteousness, so spirited in his self belief–no matter how contradictory or hypocritical his position. He had to admire this, for all the annoyance it caused. Perhaps it was the character necessary in a truly effective war correspondent.

Over Cracknell’s shoulder, Maynard noticed a strange group emerging from the valley and making for one of the impromptu command posts that had sprung up along the Heights. It appeared to be a half-baked attempt at a regimental staff. He realised that this group were from the
99th Foot: there was Quartermaster Arthurs, rosy-cheeked and unsteady, and Lieutenant Freeman, Boyce’s sickly adjutant.

And there, at its centre, flanked by private soldiers, was Boyce himself. He was wrapped in a blue greatcoat, not his own, which appeared to be covered in gun grease. His hat was gone, and his hair awry; and his moustache, devoid of wax, fell free across his face like the hide of some shaggy wolf-hound, covering his mouth completely. In one of his hands was his sword, which was slightly bent. In the other, quite unaccountably, was his young wife, gripped by the upper arm. She was limping badly, her fine clothes streaked with dirt, and across her grubby face were the pale tracks left by copious quantities of tears. Maynard could only guess as to how she had come to be out there. Her husband was coldly indifferent to her suffering. Boyce’s attitude was that of the steely disciplinarian, dragging an incorrigible wrongdoer off to the pillory.

‘Boyce,’ the Major said simply. ‘He survived.’

Cracknell looked around; his glare was immediately displaced by a wicked grin. ‘I’ll be damned. I thought he was finished for certain. And look, Mrs Boyce as well.’ He tucked the pencil behind his ear. ‘I must pay my compliments.’

Maynard put a hand flat against the correspondent’s chest, halting him. ‘You do not seem at all concerned by this. I would have thought that Boyce’s death would have solved a significant problem for you.’

Cracknell’s grin widened. ‘But a problem solved, my dear Major, is a meal finished, a bottle drained, a newspaper read. This little drama plainly has another act left to run.’

The Major frowned. ‘Is that all it is to you? A
drama
?’

By way of reply, Cracknell attempted to renew his progress towards the Boyces.

Maynard remained in his path. ‘No–no, Cracknell. Not now. Think of the great chance that has just been squandered. Think of your report.’

Realising that he could not force himself past, Cracknell stepped back. He straightened his jacket and then lit another cigarette. ‘You are right, Maynard, of course–I should permit
no distractions. My thanks for the reminder. I shall return to the pavilion and get to work.’

Maynard watched the correspondent saunter behind the tattered canvas and select a chair. Then he set out to intercept his commanding officer.

Boyce was not pleased to see him. Acutely aware of his ridiculous appearance, he demanded a full account of the battle there and then, and was keen to find fault as a means of salving his own sense of dishonour. He was especially interested in hearing of how, after some confusion over orders, the Light Division had fallen back before the greater redoubt, rejoining the fight only when supported by the Guards.

‘The Coldstreamers came to your rescue, Maynard, did they not? Had it not been for their arrival on the field, the Russians would have overcome you completely.’

‘An unfair assessment, sir, if I may say so. The men only retreated because they were ordered to, and—’

Boyce wasn’t listening. He shook his head with heavy disappointment and launched into a lecture on the vital necessity of keeping one’s nerve when under fire. It was too important to his pride–Maynard had failed, and he would hear no other interpretation of the afternoon’s events.

Suddenly, Mrs Boyce cried out. She had seen something over by the spectators’ pavilion; Cracknell, damn him, sat in plain view, writing intently. Feeling the eyes of Boyce’s group on him, he looked up and gave Mrs Boyce a sly wink. Beaming with joy, she took an unthinking step towards her lover–only to have her husband pull her back, tightening his fingers viciously around her arm.

As he watched fresh tears shine on Mrs Boyce’s cheeks, Maynard felt compelled to act, to challenge this bullying fool in some small way. He cleared his throat. ‘Can I ask you, Lieutenant-Colonel, why we are not pursuing the Russians? The Light Brigade stands ready. Surely our generals are making a great mistake.’

Predictably, Boyce was appalled by this notion, as he was by anything remotely critical of the High Command. ‘Military honour decrees that having met and bested the foe, we allow
him to withdraw.
Military honour
, Major–have you any conception of such a thing?’ His eyes narrowed. ‘By God, you’ve been talking to that
Courier
devil, haven’t you–against my express instructions!’

Maynard didn’t deny it. Mrs Boyce met his eye in momentary collusion. ‘His perspective is certainly refreshing, sir, and unencumbered by the dogma that so often hinders our own thinking on matters of strategy.’

‘
How dare he
?’ Boyce yelled. ‘How dare the ruffian doubt Lord Raglan, a man who served under none other than
Wellington himself
? It is positively treasonous. He must be stopped.’ He waved his sword furiously, swiping it so close to Maynard’s face that it threatened to clip the brim of his cap. ‘I will see him sent home–sent home in utter disgrace!’

There was a rifle report, very close; Quartermaster Arthurs exclaimed and then fell over, clutching at his rump. A wounded Russian infantryman, left for dead on a mound of corpses close to where they stood, had caught sight of the officer’s uniform and taken a shot with his musket. The privates in Boyce’s detail promptly lumbered over to him. The Russian was young and very thin with a wisp of a moustache, and lowered his weapon as they approached, meeting them with a resigned expression. They poked at him listlessly with their bayonets, as if shifting dung with pitchforks at the end of a long day in the cattle sheds. Boyce looked on, not relaxing his hold on his wife for an instant.

‘Damn and blast it!’ Arthurs spluttered from the ground, blood bulging up blackly between his fingers. ‘Do–do excuse me, Mrs Boyce, I–oh, the wretched, goat-fucking peasant! Again, Mrs Boyce, my apologies–damn it!’

Maynard called out tiredly for a stretcher.

Kitson picked his way through the knotted battlefield as quickly as he could. A sour, fetid smell hung everywhere, and the grass slopes of the Heights were slimy with congealing blood. All around, wounded men wept, prayed and pleaded for assistance that did not come. Many requested water, others liquor, and a few, those with the very worst injuries, only a speedy death to end their suffering. Hands clawed
and clutched at Kitson’s clothes as he went by. They were desperate but weak, and easily shrugged off. He had given his water canteen to the first man to ask, only to be asked again a minute later–and be showered with savage curses when he declared his inability to help. So he had hardened his heart, lowered his head and pressed on.

There were no surgeons at work on those dreadful slopes. Kitson had realised this early in his ascent and had barely been able to believe it. He’d spotted some donkey-drawn hospital vans over at the coast, but these belonged to the French, whose casualties were relatively light. For the hundreds of redcoats–and thousands of Russians–left broken and helpless in that valley there were only the exhausted regimental bandsmen and a smattering of overwhelmed stretcher-bearers. Officers were being seen to first; it would be many hours–days, even–before some of these men received aid, surely too late for a good number of them.

Cracknell was sat close to the spectators’ pavilion, writing with feverish concentration, wringing every last second of light from the fading day. He was even more unkempt than usual, the orange tip of a cigarette glowing in amongst the coarse tresses of his beard. His pencil dashed across the paper; he had covered several pages already with his spidery hand. He didn’t notice Kitson’s urgent approach.

‘Mr Cracknell, have you seen any sign of Styles? We were separated in the confusion on the riverbank, and I fear that he might have… have been…’

Cracknell, barely looking up, pointed to a rocky escarpment that overlooked the length of the Alma valley. Styles was perched upon it, missing his hat but otherwise unharmed. He was immersed in a sketch.

Kitson blinked, the dizziness of his relief making him feel suddenly sick. He exhaled hard. ‘Thank God,’ he mumbled. ‘Thank
God
.’

‘A late rally,’ Cracknell observed sarcastically, puffing on his cigarette. ‘He’s in a damned strange temper, I must say. Strode up, took some paper and a pencil from me without a word, then walked straight off again. Honestly, anyone
would think that it was
I
who had been transformed into a fear-crazed imbecile as soon as the shot started to fly.’