Blossom of War

by May Woodward

  ‘Ah, yes! Lord Tewksbury was regaling us with the new breed of tomato he’s grown in his hothouse,’ he said. ‘He intends to christen the fruit “Alma” after our recent victory.’

  Richard glanced around the cosy-corner. A jardinière stood in the angle, three plants trailing their leaves and shoots over the shelves. A rather faded oval-framed portrait of a very young lady in seventeenth-century dress and hairstyle hung above.

  His uncomfortable gaze returned to Amathia. She was as lovely as an icicle. Dazzling to look on perhaps, but you wouldn’t want it near your heart.

  ‘I trust you’ll be joining us in the drawing-room for the musical recital later?’ he asked. ‘Madame Lise will be singing.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir Richard. We share a taste for the fine arts, you and I, I believe.’

  Richard studied a large seascape hanging by the fireplace in the hall opposite, and admired a Grecian vase standing on the shelf below. His gaze followed the pattern of trailing ivy in the ivory wall panel.

  He took a deep breath and launched forth.

  ‘Lady Amathia,’ he began. ‘I am sure you must guess how much I admire you. Might I entertain the hope that if I asked you to marry me, you would not look with disfavour on my proposal?’

  Richard listened to the hooting of the owls outside in the park, and the sound of rain on the glass. If she declined him – oh, would it sting! A man had his pride, dammit. Deuced awkward for his career too; he was hoping her ducal parent’s patronage would further it. But in some deep, inner cranny… might he not be a little relieved?

  ‘Sir Richard.’ Amathia inclined towards him. ‘I am honoured by your regard for me. I can assure you that you will be favourably received if you wish to continue.’

  Richard cleared his throat a third time. He pressed on, words rushed, and with none of the panache which had, now and then, enlivened Westminster and withered the odd Whig.

  ‘I should like to remind you, Lady Amathia, that you would be mistress of a considerable estate of great antiquity—’

  ‘Yes, charming, I’m sure. Eardingstowe is not, of course, as extensive as Brancombe Park, but Sir Quincy Dooley’s marriage proposal was not as attractive to me in other respects. I have not yet, however, said him nay. I have merely advised that I am considering his offer.’ She cast Richard a meaningful look. ‘Your late father left a considerable settlement on the younger children, did he not?’

  ‘A small allowance only. Two thousand a year for each.’

  ‘It must mount up, though, among so many?’

  ‘But the estate is healthy enough, I can assure you – can certainly stand trifling expenses like my siblings’ allowances…’

  ‘Oh, I was not suggesting otherwise, Sir Richard. You are clearly fond of your relations, and I hope I shall be also. Particularly Clemmie. She and I were presented together, you know – practically sisters already.’ The young lady rose from her sofa and extended her hand. ‘Indeed, Sir Richard, your suit is most welcome to me.’

  Richard went down on one knee. He pressed his lips to her lace mitten.

  His eyes moved upwards, taking in gold satin crinoline and cream ribbon, and above the summit of this shining hillside… well, what came into his mind right then was the Causeway at Balaclava as The Times’s Mr Russell had described the scene… one of its forbidding fortresses fortified with its nine-pounders.

  Richard and the lady who was to be his wife emerged into the staircase hall a short while later, her hand resting on his arm.

  A footman, clutching a newspaper, was hurrying towards the dining-room where the gentlemen’s voices could still be heard.

  ‘I say, you there!’ Richard called. ‘You look as if you are the bearer of tidings.’

  ‘Indeed, Sir Richard, Lady Amathia.’ The man halted and bowed his head. ‘News from the front. I am taking the evening newspaper to His Lordship at once. There has been another battle! At Balaclava. Most heroic, it appears. The cavalry fought like courageous lions, it says here.’

  ‘The cavalry? Then my brother would have been involved!’ Richard said. ‘May I see?’ He perused a few paragraphs of the newspaper handed to him.

  Great victory! Russians defeated by six hundred of the brave! Well, well, the Eleventh Hussars indeed – James’s and Aubrey’s regiment. A charge by the Light Brigade into a valley surrounded on three sides by enemy ordnance? Richard shook his head; how these journals exaggerate. Not even Raglan was senile enough to attempt something so reckless. Boney had his arm not his sense.

  ‘I trust it’s good news, Sir Richard?’ Amathia asked.

  ‘I’m not sure what to make of it,’ he said.

  Well, whatever the truth behind the story, the casualty numbers were staggering. No names yet. Too early an edition.

  SEVEN

  Two army horses stood tethered to the gate of the small Orthodox chapel in Kadikoi, cropping the grass around the posts.

  The girl’s eyes roamed the building before her: a cabin constructed in the shape of a Greek cross, topped with a wooden dome. A streak of blood smeared the step and doorpost… someone injured in the battle must have staggered here to pray.

  Clemence drew her shawl around her head and stepped over the threshold of the strange place.

  The aroma of incense was as overwhelming as had been the stench of blood in the hospital tent. Her batting eyes took a moment to adjust to the dimness.

  A horseshoe lay discarded just inside the door. Sand was scattered and trampled across the tiled mosaic floor. In the aisle gaped one broken window. She could even detect a smell of urine coming from one corner of the vestibule. This House of God must have been getting misused by the soldiery for some time. Yet it remained, and formidably so, a place of worship: around the walls glittered gold-painted icons depicting saints undergoing gruesome martyrdom, or thereafter in glory.

  She tiptoed to the shrine where tiny votive flames were burning. Light a candle and pray to the Madonna…? Ah, the ritual might be alien to an Anglican, but the invocation would reach the skies just the same.

  Poor James Swynton. Clemence had been there when they’d brought home his portly body in the wagon. What a waste of a young life. One comforting thought when she’d seen his grapeshot-battered remains laid out – he had died believing his Clemence adored him.

  What should she ask of the Almighty in this outlandish place of worship? Let it be yesterday again, Lord, so that none of this need happen? Just take back thirty hours or so, Lord, that’s all…?

  No… Man should suffer and learn from his mistakes. Were not all atrocities in human history forged from good intentions gone awry?

  Clemence took from her reticule a tarnished oval medallion. She held it in the palm of her hand so that it caught the candlelight. Our Lady of Kazan. The eyes of the all-knowing mother gazing out at her in sorrow. James had carried it into battle in his scrip.

  For him, it had been no protection. Sure sign that he’d had no business taking so personal a treasure. Some Ivan, or Sasha, or Sergei somewhere was grieving the loss of this.

  Clemence enfolded her fingers around it again. She slipped it back into her reticule. She would return it to the Russian high command.

  Please, God, at least bring my brother back safe if you had to break my heart over James.

  A gust of wind blew in through the broken pane. Some of the little flames swayed or fluttered out and on again.

  But you’re not sorry he’s dead really, are you, minx?

  A ground-mist was lying in the hollows of the land. The higher ground seemed to be floating above the silent sea. Distant trees of the parkland, and red-tiled roof of the home farm took form and vanished again as the whiteness drifted.

  The baronet sat astride his hunter at the edge of the terrace. Behind him rose the south west range and russet towers of the Duke of Rutland’s seat, Belvoir. The company was gathered in the
castle’s forecourt – steamy-breathed and jolly, mingling before the hunt set out.

  The kennelmen were bringing out the hounds. Rooks were circling and cawing overhead – they weren’t fools, those feathered fellows; they knew in their tiny minds that a meet meant leftover grub.

  Really, Richard’s mind kept wandering. What is happening out in Balaclava? Why doesn’t Fanny send a telegram? My little brother Aubrey could be drinking the waters of the Lethe and here am I out for autumn sport!

  He forced his thoughts back to the present. Lady Amathia was walking her dark bay mount through the crowd towards him. She greeted him with a wave of a white-gloved hand.

  Richard beckoned over a servant and plucked two steaming goblets from the man’s tray.

  ‘How nice to see you again, Lady Amathia. Do try this delicious spiced wine! It quite takes away the chill.’

  He smiled as she halted beside him. He handed the lady a cup. The two stood their horses together beneath the boughs of a small pear tree which grew in one corner of the forecourt. Raindrops dripped from the tips of the branches.

  ‘Seeing your gentle sex hunting takes some getting used to, Lady Amathia, Somerset-bred as I am. It is a conservative shire.’

  ‘Oh, hunting is becoming de rigeur these days for ladies of the ton, Sir Richard!’ She tilted up her chin as she laughed. Her fair hair was gathered in a knot behind her neck. She wore a gentleman’s top hat with a womanly veil. ‘In our parents’ day, I daresay ladies were content to observe the hunt from a phaeton parked a discreet distance away. Now, the boldest of the fair sex are riding fences too.’

  As she sipped from the cup, he observed her. A russet-gold leaf meandered down from the tree and lodged on the brim of her hat. It was true that more and more females were taking up the sport of hunting these days – a manly preserve within Richard’s own memory! Her dress was like a feminine imitation of a man’s hunting garb – dark velvet skirt, boots and white silk gloves. Good Lord, they’ll be taking over Parliament next and giving men the boot – well, cannot say Aristophanes didn’t warn us…

  ‘Do you have any further news from the war, Sir Richard?’ She turned her horse so that she was facing him.

  ‘Only from The Times. I gather the Russians were driven off from Balaclava. But from my kinfolk and my good friend Lord Fanshawe nothing have I heard!’

  ‘Ah, yes! Your dear aunt and sister. I trust they are finding their trip educational?’

  Oh yes, he was sure they must be. Clemence’s one letter home had sounded subdued. Had she seen things never meant for feminine attention? Serve her right for demanding to go on this damn-fool vacation.

  ‘The Rutlands’ company could be improved on, do you not think?’ said Amathia, espying around the chattering groups. ‘And the hunt breakfast – second rate, I think. When we are entertaining at Eardingstowe, dear Sir Richard, we shall make our seat the beau ideal! We’ll be the envy of the ton, do you not agree?’

  ‘Oh, I have every confidence in you, Lady Amathia.’

  ‘But I shan’t neglect the first duty of a wife, Sir Richard.’ Amathia smiled. She touched his hand. ‘That is – to make you the most content of men.’

  ‘This you have already done, sweet lady, by saying ‘yes’ to me!’ said Richard. ‘Since you agreed to become my wife, I have been lost in the clouds.’

  Amathia laughed.

  ‘Ah, Sir Richard! When your brother Cornet Somerlee returns, we must honour him – our own war hero – with a kettledrum at Eardingstowe. Unless…’ she cast her eyes down for a moment. ‘Perhaps Aubrey would prefer to lay on entertainment at his own expense? He has such a generous allowance, you were telling me.’

  ‘Not that generous!’ Richard stroked his hunter’s ears. ‘No, Aubrey is still dependent on my goodwill for extravagances should he indulge in them. At least, until Uncle George goes to rest.’

  Amathia’s horse fidgeted, snorting steam, as two other riders passed close by, and the yapping of the hounds rose in pitch. She reached a hand to sooth the beast’s ears.

  ‘Your uncle, Sir Richard?’

  ‘Hmm… Aubrey is due an inheritance.’

  ‘Oh? I was not aware.’ She fixed her gaze on him. Her eyes were grey, but sometimes, when there was laughter in her face or something had fired her thoughts – there was a greenly hue also.

  ‘Yes. Uncle George is leaving most of his estate to my brother. George is a bachelor, and Aubrey’s his favourite nephew, you see. George was at Waterloo – one of Wellington’s cavalry officers. Or so he always told us as children. But then I checked the family Bible and noticed he would have been about twelve years old. So, I’m guessing he was a drummer-boy or something like that. But anyway, as you might imagine, he dotes on Aubrey.’

  ‘I see! This legacy would revert to you, one supposes, were Aubrey not to return from the war?’

  ‘I suppose so… I had not thought of it until now.’

  Amathia gazed into the forest beyond Richard’s shoulder.

  Clemence peeped through her netted fingers at the unconscious man twitching in the bed before her.

  A lesion yawned in the infantryman’s bare ribcage. Like the cave of Erebus where Hades peeped through to the upper world.

  It looked like a volcano had gone off in the man’s thorax. The scorched landscape and ridges of clotted blood around the crater could have been solidifying lava and molten rock which had come spewing out at the instant of eruption. She was getting to recognise the calderas blasted out of human flesh by shrapnel, grape or canister-shot.

  Then she spotted the crawling squatters who had moved in, nibbling away.

  ‘Orderly?’ She shrieked to the man who had shown her into the hospital ward.

  ‘I ain’t no orderly, miss!’ the man laughed. ‘I’m Private Bilsborrow of the Dorsets. My colonel thinks this is all I’m good for. Sorry about the stench of pee and blood and maggots and what-not. You gets used to it.’

  ‘Well… private…’ she struggled to get out. ‘There’s a grub on this poor man!’

  ‘Oh, don’t ‘ee worry about those little gourmets, miss,’ said Private Bilsborrow. ‘Doing yer man a favour, they are. They eat the infected flesh, see, and the wound’ll heal all the sooner.’

  ‘Oh, I see…’

  As the battlefield surgeon had warned, it had taken four days to get to the Dardanelles, fretting all the while about her brother who remained missing. A journey she had undertaken by sail along with the wounded. The high command had better uses for its steamships than transporting the no-longer-of-any-use. Some had died before arrival. One with typhoid had been tossed overboard before he was dead. And at Scutari she had found…

  ‘This hospital is a disgrace!’

  ‘Should’a seen it a week ago afore the battle-axe arrived! She’s cleaned it up a bit, Miss Florence Nightingale.’

  ‘Oh, that is such an outlandish Christian name!’

  ‘Florence is where she was born, I believe.’

  ‘How fortunate her parents did not visit Wimbledon.’

  Clemence took a long, noticing look at her surroundings. The ward was an elongated, tunnel-like room. Lamps hung from its low, arched ceiling, giving off oily light. Some patients lay slumped against the walls for want of bed space. Some were dead. The girl didn’t need to bend over them to see that. But there were too few staff to remove them. This young chap likely was not the only private seconded to make up for the lack of personnel.

  ‘Where is your water supply, private, and your linen?’

  Private Bilsborrow cackled.

  ‘There’s your water, miss.’ Pointing to a jug. ‘Bandages? That’s a laugh! It ain’t only bullets and ammunition we ain’t getting sent. One trooper’s wife ripped orf her petticoat and used that as a bandage.’

  ‘Right! Then turn away, private.’

  When the soldier peeped, he caught
a glimpse of lacy, beribboned drawers.

  ‘Do this a lot, do you?’ he said as Clemence tore her undergarment into strips.

  ‘Two years ago, I was looking forward to my presentation at court!’

  The volcano-man, meanwhile, was groaning and stirring into consciousness.

  ‘Ere! What’s this la-di-da voice I hear?’

  ‘I am trying to help, private. I’m not a nurse but I’ve some experience…’

  ‘Grrr!’ the man said. ‘You be telling Lord Raglan, ma’am, and Lord fucking Palmerston, what sent us into this fucking hell-hole…’

  ‘That is enough, private!’

  All three pairs of eyes whipped around at sound of a new voice.

  Miss Florence Nightingale needed no introduction. She glared at the invalid, and then turned to Clemence.

  ‘You must be Miss Somerlee?’

  The Superintendent of Scutari was a formidable-looking female, though not above average height, just entering her middle years. With chestnut-brown hair and arched eyebrows, she was handsome in a horsy way. She wore a plain, silk gown and lace cap, and was not to be messed with.

  ‘Please finish what you have started,’ she told the girl, ‘then I’d like a word, if you please.’

  ‘This is what I was laughingly told would be my private office,’ Florence Nightingale said of the meagre chamber where she led Clemence. The hospital building had once served as a Turkish barracks. ‘For the first two days I had to share this room with a dead Russian officer, until someone thought to remove the poor chap.

  ‘When I got here,’ Miss Nightingale went on, ‘there were no bed pans, surgical implements, bandages or anaesthetics. Of the latter there still are none. Sir John Hall, the Chief Medical Officer, does not approve of the use of anaesthetic, you see. He belongs to the old school of medicine which believes that a good dose of unrelieved pain facilitates the healing process! The other necessaries I’ve bought myself from local suppliers. Well! That’s my choler vented.’