Blossom of War

by May Woodward

  From somewhere behind the hospital, a muezzin was calling the faithful to noon prayer. How sad was the wailing sound. Would she ever see her brother again?

  ‘Miss…’

  The faint voice came from one of the beds she was passing. Clemence went to the shivering man’s side.

  ‘Oh! Thank Gawd – you are real, miss! For a moment I thought I was back at Inkerman. Only cockroaches crawling over me, not Cossacks, that’s a relief. But the sea. It’s so loud! Like it’s coming to fetch us away! Maybe one night, when we’re all asleep…’

  ‘No, the sea won’t take you while I’m here!’

  Clemence peeled back the blanket and peeped beneath the bandage. A bullet wound in the thigh. By now, she knew the gangrene which days without treatment wrought. The infection’s green, shoot-like tendrils would smother him before dawn.

  ‘I’ll look for a surgeon, right away,’ she smiled, squeezing his fumbling hand.

  She scanned the ward. Not a surgeon in sight.

  On her way to the medical store in the yard, Clemence’s lamplight fell upon the heap of dead, tossed out like so much refuse.

  It looked like a crumpled Hydra – heterogeneous heads, arms and legs sticking out all over the place. No precise Heracles had slain this beast, though: it seemed like the butchery of some incompetent on his first mission.

  Clemence pressed her kerchief to her face.

  One hand’s fingers were trailing in the rivulet of urine and floating excrement which was trickling from the overflowing midden-pit. Another limb jutted out straight as a pikestaff in the rigor of recent death. Here a blue sleeve, there a scarlet one. A gilt button gleamed, gold lace and the plume of a shako. She recognised the uniforms of the Connaught Rangers here, the Coldstream Guards there. A Highlander’s tartan sock. A whirlpool of feasting flies had gathered above, revelling in this cornucopia. At least someone was having a party.

  We blame you… you! And all your kind, fancy lady. We did what you said – came out to this savage land to fight because you told us the Czar was coming to get us. You lied to us. And one day we’re coming to get you. Just like Jenny Greenteeth! We’ll get you, we will…

  Here a shining blue eye in the mound… there a green or brown one… his last screaming agony crystallised in one man’s face… seeming as if they were glaring right out at her.

  Amathia sauntered the Oriflamme’s decks in mounting boredom. When was Sir Richard going to land? She could hear the gunfire and see the plumes of smoke up there in the hills.

  ‘Of course, I’m not happy about what Clemence is doing, Fanny!’

  The uptight voice of her husband-to-be came from the on-deck lounge as she passed. Richard’s genteel tones had just a smidgen of the West Country in them; ‘happy’ was almost, but not quite, ‘harpy.’ Amathia paused and listened to the quarrel going on.

  ‘But at least my sister’s safe enough over there with Florence Nightingale!’ Richard went on. ‘Although knowing Clemence, she’ll be telling our future dinner-party guests what an infected boil looks like while they’re eating their food! But I’m more concerned about Aubrey right now.’

  ‘Dickon, I’m telling you, there is something wrong, very wrong, with Clemence!’ Brandon answered him. ‘You need to get her out, and home at once!’

  ‘Why did you not stop her going to Scutari in the first place if you were so damned worried?’

  ‘I have no authority. I’m not her brother! Or her husband! Just a very concerned family friend.’

  ‘I can’t just leave Lizzy on her own here to search for Aubrey! Because frankly, Fanny, I cannot see that you have done much.’

  ‘Now, look here, Dickon Somerlee – ’

  Amathia stepped inside to join them. The pair at once fell silent.

  ‘Forgive me, Sir Richard,’ she said, ‘I could not help but overhear.’ She slipped a hand through his arm. ‘Can I help I wonder? I am sure Brandon would not be so concerned for Clemence if there was not good reason. Oh, Florence Nightingale’s quite the heroine back home,’ Amathia scoffed. ‘But I wonder if she’s the angel they think? A social climber seeking glory, I suspect. Clemence could be quite corrupted! If she doesn’t bring back some virulent disease, she’ll bring troopers’ language! Why don’t you and Lizzy, sir, go to Scutari as Brandon suggests to fetch your sister back? And meanwhile, I could continue the enquiries after Cornet Somerlee.’

  ‘And what makes you think you can…?’ Lord Fanshawe swung to face her.

  ‘Please, Brandon!’ said Amathia. ‘I’m not without connections here myself. Papa knows both Raglan and General Airey.’

  ‘Amathia, you only arrived in the peninsula two days ago!’

  Richard raised a hand to cut them both off.

  ‘Lady Amathia could not,’ Richard said to Brandon, ‘be less successful than you have been, Fanny, in your efforts to find Aubrey.’ Brandon turned away, frowning. ‘It is such a kind thing you offer to do, Lady Amathia,’ Richard said. ‘But I cannot ask it of you.’

  ‘Let me do this for you, dear Sir Richard. Your kinfolk are my kinfolk, remember.’ She leaned close to his shoulder. ‘Be assured I shall march into Sebastopol if I must to find your brother.’

  ‘Will you be safe here in Balaclava, though?’

  ‘As safe as any woman could be with a ring of battleships to protect her!’ Amathia gave him a small, wry smile. ‘And Fanny will be staying in Balaclava I assume, and can defend me from the Russian foe, can’t you, Brandon?’ Brandon did not look her way. She would laugh to herself later.

  Richard’s strained features relaxed into a weak smile. He raised her hand and kissed it.

  ‘What a loving wife-to-be you are, Amathia.’

  ‘I’ll ask everywhere, Sir Richard, I promise.’

  She’d see the enquiries after Aubrey were called off. Would tell Raglan and Airey and everyone else that she spoke with Sir Richard’s authority. So – if by some miracle this lost Somerlee was alive somewhere, he would never be found. Richard and Lysithea would be on the other side of the Black Sea by then. And who would ever know? As for Fanny Fanshawe – oh, she’d been getting the better of him since she’d shopped him to his nanny for having a runny nose.

  Sir John Hall crossed to the window of Miss Nightingale’s private study. The latest casualty boat could be seen mooring.

  ‘Oh Lord, not more from Inkerman! We just don’t have the beds! Some will have to be sent straight back.’ The Chief Medical Officer and Florence Nightingale disliked each other. Privately, he had referred to her as petticoat imperieuse. He expected an argument.

  Before she could reply, however, something else caught his attention. A fair young woman in a grey cloak was heading along the jetty towards the vessel.

  ‘Is that the Somerlee girl – the Baronet of Eardingstowe’s sister?’

  Florence Nightingale stepped across to join him.

  ‘Indeed, Sir John. Comely creature, is she not? Not yet eighteen. She meets the boat each day because she’s hoping the sailors might bring her news. I allowed her to stay as a volunteer because she seemed sensible. Perhaps I was mistaken! Not for the first time,’ Florence added with a rueful smile.

  ‘I hear they’re rather an odd genus, the Somerlee family,’ said Sir John. ‘Did you hear about that Aunt Lysithea of hers? Ran off with Boney or something of the sort! I was in Spain as a junior medical officer at the time. Quite the scandal!’

  ‘Perhaps Lysithea’s come to try her luck with our sexagenarian Lord Raglan,’ said Florence Nightingale.

  ‘Huh! He wishes!’ said the doctor.

  He observed the girl out on the waterfront. She spoke with the captain, who shrugged, and shook his head. Clemence buried her face in her hands.

  Back along the planks she scurried, the worthy seaman calling after her.

  Sir John went to the door of Miss Nightingale’s office. He w
atched, unseen, as the young woman ran in through the hospital porch.

  Clemence slid her back down a wall until she was seated on the ground. Arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, she sobbed. Pressed hands to her ears. And appeared to be speaking to someone… But she was alone in the passage, and could have no idea anyone was looking on…

  The frowning Sir John retreated without a sound. He returned to Florence’s side, and spoke in low tones.

  ‘As I was saying, an odd family, the Somerlees. One doesn’t like to heed gossip, of course. But tell me – have you ever heard a rumour? About an aunt of the present baronet who was committed to an asylum? Madness of the female hysteria kind has been known to run in families, you know…’

  Clemence peeled back the shivering patient’s blanket. At once she dropped it.

  ‘This is not trench fever!’ She turned to the orderly who was with her. ‘Spots on the chest! Typhoid. Miss Nightingale has said to put any like him into the second ward. Isolate them.’

  She stepped back as the man got on with it.

  Clemence put a hand to her brow. She heard the orderly coming up behind her… asking if she was all right…

  ‘Yes… I did not sleep much last night.’

  She summoned a smile. It was as much an attempt to reassure herself as anyone else. She continued on her way along the ward.

  That anecdote which might have been the first news of Aubrey. A captive hussar with a band of Serbs? But nothing had yet come of it. Nothing…

  How many hours have I spent in the hospital? When did I last sleep? But busyness relieves the brooding… keeps me moving onward…

  She stared at her own hand stretched out in front. The fingers were clawing at the closest bedstead as she gripped it to steady herself. Looked like a pale, trembling spider.

  The patient in the bed scrambled to sit up.

  ‘Bajeezus – lookin’ fit to pass out, ye are, miss.’ A grin overtook his concern. ‘Rest on me lap, lass, and ye’ll be right again, ye will.’

  ‘No… I’m all right.’ Clemence bustled away, through the rows of beds towards the corridor. Were the other nurses watching?

  There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m tired. I’m frightened for my brother. I feel guilty that I didn’t love James.

  A wicked wrong, you did, Clemence Somerlee. Who are your people to be fighting the Russians? The Czar’s never done a hurt like yours.

  Whose was the voice? That Irishman in the bed? No, she was out of his range now.

  And you, Clemmie, you sent us into the valley of death… women like you, waving at the troops, baying for glory. It was a way of ridding yourself of me, wasn’t it, so you could be free of a man you did not love.

  ‘No, James, I swear that wasn’t how it was…’ She pressed her forehead against a doorframe.

  Well, you took something precious from me, Clemence. My lifeblood. And I’m keeping something dear to you – your brother.

  ‘No, don’t punish Aubrey for what I did…’

  You’ll never know, Clemmie, whether he’s alive or dead or what became of him. I’ll see you don’t. Did you say ‘yes’ to me because you thought I had money? Then change your mind when you found I did not?

  ‘No, it wasn’t like that…’

  Private Bilsborrow and his colleague were approaching with the typhoid man on a stretcher. Placing it down, the orderly laid a hand upon her shoulder.

  ‘Ere! You ain’t chipper are you, miss?’

  She felt a burning sensation in her fingers and palms as they scraped down the bare stones of the wall… and then chilliness as the flagstones struck her cheek.

  Clemence tossed in the bed and muttered. At least they’d screened the unconscious girl off at one end of the ward, apart from the soldiers.

  ‘Can you hear me, Clemmie? It is Aunt Lizzy. And Dickon has come also. He’s just speaking with Sir John. But he’ll be here soon.’ No way of knowing if she heard or not. The girl went on mumbling.

  Lysithea spoke to the sharp-faced woman who stood beside her.

  ‘My nephew, the baronet, set off from England when we wired him about Cornet Somerlee going missing, Miss Nightingale. He has arrived to face a double tragedy.’

  ‘My Lady!’ Florence Nightingale said. ‘We have hundreds of incapacitated servicemen from the Battle of Inkerman. Some are yet stacked on stretchers in the yard because we haven’t enough beds! Your niece is taking a berth we could use! I had to give her laudanum just to stop her incessant sobbing!’

  ‘Well, Scutari would undermine any constitution, Miss Nightingale,’ Lysithea replied.

  She glanced about her as she said it. She had been almost unable to credit some of the horrors Clemence had recounted in a letter she’d sent by the boat. If you trod on a cockroach, a legion of her kinfolk would swoop to avenge their auntie’s murder.

  ‘My Lady!’ Florence sounded displeased. For all her vaunted courage, she was a vain person, jealous of any rival for her place in public glory. ‘Before I came, there weren’t even any bandages! I had to buy supplies myself!’

  ‘Yes…yes, I’m sorry, Miss Nightingale.’ Lysithea looked again at the unquiet dreamer in the bed. ‘I’m just so troubled! About my missing nephew, and now my poorly niece!’

  ‘This isn’t fever, My Lady.’ Miss Nightingale narrowed her eyes. ‘Miss Somerlee’s behaviour has become… disturbing. The child should be returned to England at once. Forgive me – but she is not of sound mind.’

  ‘This is a breakdown brought on by overwork and worry,’ Lysithea replied frostily. ‘Yet you are right about one thing. Sir Richard and I will be taking Clemmie home. Heaven knows what else we all might catch otherwise in this dreadful hospital of yours! And now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Nightingale, I must rejoin the baronet.’

  She paused by the screen, turning back.

  ‘Goodbye, darling,’ she said to Clemence. ‘If you can hear me, we’re taking you home to Eardingstowe… ’

  Lysithea stepped out into the ward, aware of the superintendent’s glowering eye on her all the while.

  In a bed close by, a patient with bandaged ribs grinned, and thrust a hand inside his coverlet.

  ‘You like to see a soldier standing to attention on parade, Countess?’

  Lysithea looked bored.

  ‘Yes. But I doubt that’s what you have beneath your blanket. More like a wilting snowdrop I imagine.’

  She swept on her way through rows of appreciative cackles.

  TEN

  After looking in on his unconscious sister, Richard wandered outdoors. He stood by the harbour wall overlooking the water.

  Discharged patients were crowding into the Balaclava boat. Richard listened to one group of three singing a ballad called ‘Battle of the Alma’, while a fourth played the Irish pipe.

  One of the seamen who were loading up the craft was gazing up into the firmament.

  ‘Might have to postpone this trip. Goin’ to be a storm.’

  ‘I suppose you know this through sailors’ lore – some esoteric sign in the welkin, my man?’

  ‘Ooh yes, sir. Big, black cloud on the horizon.’

  ‘Quite. Well, I expect Sir John can accommodate us until tomorrow.’

  His aunt came to stand beside Richard.

  ‘What a restless sea,’ Lysithea said. ‘So massive and mighty! Can break you with one wave. Destroy a kingdom with a savage tide. Doesn’t it make you fear the Almighty, Richard?’

  ‘Indeed. Fearful, truly.’ He’d not considered it until now. Richard treated his God like one of his tenants to be visited in his dwelling once a week, told he was doing a splendid job, and given a modicum extra when times were hard. ‘I’ve never thought of God as cruel, Aunt Lizzy. Man, yes…’

  ‘What could be crueller than the loss of a brother in a military catastrophe?’

  ‘God did
not order the Light Brigade into the valley.’

  ‘Many would disagree, Dickon. Are we not fighting for England and St George?’

  She was right, bless her.

  ‘I thought we were supposed to be fighting for England’s freedom.’ Richard smiled bleakly. ‘To get our country back from the Czar’s clutches. Although I’m not aware he ever had it! Think I’m letting worry overwhelm me, Aunt. Worry over Aubrey. And over Clemmie. This isn’t just a fever, is it?’

  ‘No, it’s some kind of breakdown.’

  Richard nodded.

  ‘That’s what I mean! I can’t help remembering those times when Clemence was confined to the house and couldn’t go out. And then I remember Aunt Cassie too. Lysithea – tell me truly… do you think Clemence might be… mad?’

  Lysithea slowly shook her head.

  ‘But then,’ she said, ‘if you want me to be truthful… I don’t think Cassandra is either. Fey, perhaps, would be a better label. But tell that to your mad doctors!’ She slipped a hand through his arm. ‘But anyway… let’s talk of something cheerful, hey? Like your approaching very grand nuptials in Westminster! Quite the wedding of the season, I think. Royals, and half the peers of the realm to be present. What an occasion for the Somerlees!’

  ‘Yes… and it’s something else which pricks me with concern if I’m honest, Lizzy. Oh, not the expense and all. Consett’s paying for most of that—’

  ‘Well, if second thoughts you’re having…’

  ‘I didn’t say that, Aunt Lizzy!’ Richard laughed without mirth. ‘Call the marriage off, eh? Be sued for breach of promise, shamed as a bounder for the rest of my days, and Consett condemn my career to the waves?’

  ‘Well, I’m your godmother, Richard, as well as your aunt. May I give you my advice?’ The countess moved to face him. She cupped both hands around his face. ‘You’re standing at the crossroads of your life! And I’ve never believed she was the right wife for you.’