‘Stop!’ Katie cried, ‘stop!’ Suddenly she saw he was carrying a thick metal rod.
Dolores was in the Bronx, Katie was in the Crimea, and Mimi was alone in their apartment, with a madman. What would Diuman do when he couldn’t find the walking stick? What if Mimi woke up? Katie struggled to try and reach Diuman. She leapt to her feet, the note falling to the floor. Lurching forward, she grabbed for a man who wasn’t really there, shouting for police who would not be born for over a hundred years.
Florence Nightingale raised her eyebrows. ‘This isn’t what I expected.’
Mary Seacole shook her head and whistled low. ‘No, it ain’t. She’s gone to the wrong place. That’s one bad trip she’s taking. I’ll get something to calm her down and cool her off.’ Mary disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a tin cup. Taking Katie by the shoulders, and holding the cup to her lips, she coaxed her to drink.
Florence Nightingale leaned forward, sniffing the cup. ‘Spirits? For a girl her age?’ she questioned.
‘Spirits for them who see spirits,’ Mary Seacole replied. ‘She’ll settle now and sleep, and hopefully forget most of it.’
‘We’ll have to try again,’ Florence Nightingale said, ‘though with more care, more caution.’
‘She’s one loose cannon,’ Mary Seacole commented. She held the vessel-shaped amulet between her thumb and forefinger as if taking its pulse. ‘Her power is great, but where it leads her, who can tell?’
Katie was coming to, shaking her head and rubbing her eyes. Had it been a horrible dream, or was Professor Diuman really alone with Mimi in Apartment 11C? ‘I have to go!’ she cried.
‘Where to, child?’ Mary Seacole asked.
Katie’s voice grew strong. ‘To New York, to 89th Street, to Apartment 11C, to the twenty-first century.’
Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole exchanged worried looks. ‘That is impossible,’ Florence Nightingale rapped out. ‘Would you desert your friends? And we need your help, there is much you can offer – not just to the sick and infirm soldiers, but to the British army, the British Empire. You could be pivotal to victory in the Crimea – you could be pivotal in the problems that beset this world. Yet you wail, “I want to go home”. For shame!’
‘But, Mimi!’ Katie protested.
‘Yes, Me, Me – it is selfish of you to be thinking of abandoning your post.’ Miss Nightingale turned to Mary Seacole. ‘Whatever is in that tin cup, give her more.’ Katie drank again. The room began to darken, her thoughts were growing fuzzy. The note from Mimi was on the floor where she’d dropped it. Stealthily she picked it up, and, careful not to read it again, stuffed it in her bodice. She could hear Mary Seacole and Florence Nightingale, their voices growing further away.
‘Could you pick up anything from her vision?’ Florence Nightingale asked. ‘Anything we need?’
‘Yes,’ Mary Seacole replied. ‘It was hard, with all the interference from her own time, but there was more. Her energies run so high. They are mightily heightened.’
‘Heightened?’
‘Yes,’ Mary Seacole said softly. ‘She has linked into something, or someone else. She’s made some kind of new connection and this has magnified her abilities.’
Florence Nightingale’s voice rose. ‘Then that must mean . . .’
Mary Seacole gently pulled a blanket over Katie. ‘I think it does,’ she murmured, sounding worried. ‘It just might be . . . the time has come . . . the three, the Chosen, the Tempus – they are all here.’
Women Must Weep
Katie knew that if she opened her eyes there would be daylight, and she just wasn’t ready for that. It felt as if her head was full of thick, wet cotton balls. She could hear the boys outside – shouting and laughing and chasing each other. Beyond them was another noise, a continual popping and banging far in the distance. Katie listened for a long time, until she figured out where she was. Gradually she recalled another sea voyage, the wounded soldiers and the long mule trek to Mary Seacole’s British Hotel. There was something else, something about Mimi, drifting ghost-like through her befuddled brain. It all made her feel very lonely and anxious. She would have given much for the company of Alice and James. Florence Nightingale, though a nurse, was hardly a comforting companion.
Eventually, the anxiety got the best of her. She opened her eyes and found herself lying on a bed in a room with bare plank walls and a corrugated iron roof. In the corner, a camp stove burned brightly. As she watched the sunshine flicker across the walls there was a brisk knock.
Mary Seacole bustled in carrying a basin and jug. ‘How are you feeling, my dear?’ she asked. ‘Last night was quite a night, but I suppose you don’t remember much, being so tired and all.’
‘Not much,’ Katie said. Mary Seacole’s smile broadened. Katie stretched and, rolling on her side, looked at her. She was an even more extraordinary sight by daylight, and had added a violet and pink apron to her outfit. ‘I remember meeting you, but not much more. Why can’t I remember last night?’ Katie asked.
Mary Seacole busied herself, pouring water into the basin. ‘There must be a reason. Maybe it was the journey; yes, the journey must have been too long. Florence does push people far too hard. I tell her, not everyone is a martyr, afire with a cause. But does she listen – no, no, no. Then she drives herself harder than anyone else. Just think, she’s already on the move. Rushed back to Scutari. You hear those funny, booming noises. That’s our men, firing the big guns. The siege of Sebastopol has begun. We’re hitting the Russians with everything we’ve got, we’re going to bring that city to its knees – but those Russians won’t go down without a fight. Where there’s war, there’s wounded. Already they’re reporting boatloads of our men being shipped to hospital in Scutari. It seems the doctors will need Florence after all. She left in the middle of the night, with plans to sail with the British wounded this morning.’
‘She’s left me here, all alone?’ Katie panicked. Florence Nightingale might be a difficult woman, but she was certainly a competent one. Of course the wounded men needed Florence Nightingale more – but how was Katie to manage without her?
Mary Seacole flashed a genuine smile. ‘Don’t you worry, Miss. I’ll look after you. And you’re not so alone as you think. You’ve got callers. Now quit fussing and have a nice fresh wash.’
Katie swung her legs off the bed as Mary Seacole bustled out of the room. Company? This was hardly the place, or the time – or even century – for her to expect company. She hoped it would be James or Alice. But the voices she heard shortly were not those of her friends. One of them was completely new – a deep, bluff rolling voice with the lilt of the Irish about it. The other she had heard before. There was no mirror in the room, but she tried to tidy her wild hair and smooth out the wrinkled tweed dress. ‘I must smell terrible,’ she thought, but consoled herself by thinking ‘and so must everyone else.’ With a final pinch to her cheeks, she threw the grey wool cloak over her shoulders and went to meet her guests.
There were two men. Jack was standing in the middle of the room, blushing and shaking his head as Mary Seacole offered him cakes and brandy. The other man had no such qualms. Patting Mary Seacole on the shoulder, he popped two cakes into his mouth at once, and stuffed a third in his pocket for good measure. Katie recognized him: she’d seen him when the troops had paraded before the Queen at Buckingham Palace. It was William Howard Russell. He was stout, though quite tall, with a round face, black hair and whiskers. As a reporter for The Times, he was not in uniform, but had created his own semi-military outfit: a Commissariat officer’s cap with a broad gold band, a Rifleman’s patrol jacket, cord breeches and a pair of leather butcher’s boots with huge brass spurs. Despite the cumbersome boots and spurs, he practically danced across the room and, clicking his heels together, bowed to Katie. ‘And this is the young lady,’ he said ‘ten times more beautiful and larger than life.’
For a brief moment Katie wanted to knock him down – she knew her nurse’s clothes were awful.
And why did they all find her height so funny?
But Jack stepped in, saying with great courtesy and just a hint of laughter, ‘James wrote to me, to tell of your pending arrival. And when the reports came through of a tall American landing with the Nightingale nurses, I hoped it would be you.’ Jack had grown decidedly thinner. His thick straight hair was long and unkempt and his fair Irish skin coarsened by rough outdoor life. Experience was fast changing him from a boy to a man.
Katie didn’t know what to say, or what to do. In one way, she knew Jack well. He was, after all, James’s brother. And Jack’s letters to Grace had been so open and so tender. When writing about the war, he had revealed much of himself. Yet, as Jack stood there, Katie became stiff with shyness. Once again he had become a stranger. She searched her mind for appropriate words. At times like this she desperately needed Alice. ‘Tea?’ she questioned weakly. ‘Is it tea you’ve come for?’
William Howard Russell threw his head back and laughed. ‘Tea is it?’ he roared. ‘At mess this morning, Jack O’Reilly hears tell of a tall, handsome American woman staying with Mary Seacole. “Saddle Embarr,” he cries, and quick as a flash he’s dashed from camp, with no leave or whatnot, me galloping at his heels. And do you really think he’s come for the tea?’
Katie really did think she’d knock him down this time, but Mary Seacole did it for her, giving William Howard Russell a forceful push into a chair. ‘You behave,’ she admonished him. ‘I don’t think much of Americans as a whole, but this one is real genteel, a proper person. Now stop embarrassing the young ones.’ She turned to Katie. ‘I believe you are right, Miss. A hot pot of tea is just the thing. While I’m gone, you make friends with Mr William Howard Russell here. His bark is far worse than his bite.’
William Howard Russell was still laughing. Getting up from his chair, he took Katie by the hand. ‘My apologies, Miss. It’s just in times of war, I don’t believe in tip-toeing about. And I’m not the friend you’ll want to be making. I’ll help Mary Seacole with the tea and leave the two of you to talk. And if the conversation must be of hot beverages, so be it.’
As he left the room, both Katie and Jack laughed. ‘Well, that was like the most embarrassing thing ever,’ Katie said, but at least she could look Jack in the eye now.
‘He means well,’ Jack told her. ‘Russell is good at heart, and speaks out for the foot soldier. His articles in The Times will help to improve conditions for all of us. The only reason he came with me was to purchase supplies for our lads in the trenches. He’s great company around the campfire, drinks anyone’s brandy, and is often the only man in camp with a good cigar. He’s also the source of all information. It was Russell who told me you were travelling to the battlefront with Miss Florence Nightingale.’
Katie tried to look dignified and seated herself. Was this what it was like to be courted? She’d never even been on a date. Act normal, she told herself sternly. She liked Jack too much to be silly. ‘I suppose you’ve come to enquire about Grace,’ she said. ‘She really is much better.’
‘You mean a lot to Grace. In fact, you mean a great deal to most of the members of my family.’ Jack’s blue eyes were still merry, but there was something deeper in them.
Katie felt the urge to run from the room and bang her head against the wall. Instead she changed the subject. ‘Your brother, you know, James, is in Scutari,’ she said. ‘Miss Nightingale has put him in charge of sorting out the doctors.’
‘Yes, I know he’s my brother,’ Jack teased, ‘and he must be in seventh heaven, telling all those doctors what to do. James always thinks he knows best.’
‘Well, most of the time he does,’ Katie shot back loyally. Jack might be very attractive but her friendship with James was rock solid. ‘He’s extremely advanced in medicine, far above those doctors of your time, really almost up to practices in my time, I mean . . .’ She stumbled slightly and fell silent. She’d forgotten for a moment that although Jack was James’s brother, he still didn’t know Katie’s story. He didn’t know the truth. She had to be more careful.
Jack looked at her curiously. ‘What do you mean, my time? You seem so straightforward, but I’m puzzled by you,’ he said. ‘You might be an American, from a different place, but I assume we live in the same time.’
The conversation had turned serious. Katie fiddled with her cloak, trying to decide what to say. The silence grew long. Finally she looked up – she hated seeing that hurt expression on his face.
‘I want to tell you,’ she said. ‘It used to be all about me, but it’s not any more. There are so many other people involved. And even if I did tell you, I kind of doubt you’d believe me.’
Jack paced the room. She could tell he was frustrated. ‘Is James involved?’ he asked. ‘And what about Grace?’
‘James is in the middle of the whole thing,’ she told him. ‘He understands, and is helping in every way he can. We haven’t told Grace, but . . .’
‘And why would James understand, and I would not?’ he interrupted.
Katie had forgotten that along with brotherly love, there was a lot of brotherly rivalry between James and Jack. She could have kicked herself. Taking a deep breath, she decided to trust him. ‘It all has to do with time,’ she began, ‘something called the Tempus.’
At that moment the door burst open. Mary Seacole rushed in – had she been listening outside? ‘Now, children,’ she exclaimed, ‘because tall as you be, you are still children. I’ve dished up something more substantial in the canteen for the two of you. Miss Katie has not eaten properly for some time, and Lieutenant O’Reilly I’m certain wouldn’t say no to a nice hot supper.’ She had Katie by the arm, and was literally dragging her from the room.
Jack just had time to whisper in her ear. ‘I am grateful for your attempt to explain. I trust you. And you can trust me. I hope there will be another time, many more times.’
A great surge of affection flooded Katie, and she would have given much to sit with him and talk quietly. But that would have to wait.
They crossed the yard, where the boys were throwing grain to the animals. ‘There chick-chick, there pig!’ they yelled. The boys did everything at high volume, and now they had to shout across the sound of cannon fire. The canteen was in a separate building, made of rough timber. But the long plank tables were clean and the shelves filled with yet more boxes, bags and barrels.
William Howard Russell was already seated with a tankard of brandy and water, a circle of soldiers surrounding him. He waved them over cheerfully. ‘You’ve heard of the gift of the Magi? Well, Mary Seacole has the gift of the magpie,’ he joked. ‘You can find anything and everything here – from a darning needle to a ship’s anchor.’
As if to prove this point, Mary Seacole disappeared into her tiny kitchen – not unlike a ship’s galley – and returned with half a dozen roasted fowls held high above her head. The men at the crowded tables banged their cups and cutlery in appreciation, and Katie suddenly realized she was very hungry.
Jack could almost read her mind. ‘I remember you have quite a hearty appetite,’ he said. ‘I believe your first words to me were “I could eat a horse”.’ Russell hooked half a chicken with his fork and flung it onto Katie’s plate. ‘Horse flesh will be a delicacy here, particularly as the winter sets in. So I suggest you indulge your appetite with chicken while you can.’
The only sound at Katie’s table was that of steady eating. Once Katie had demolished her half a chicken and a heap of fried potatoes, she looked around the room. It was a strange mixture of glamour and glitz, dirt and filth. The officers had a separate table, its prestige marked by a threadbare tablecloth. They drank warm champagne out of battered pewter cups. The other tables were a mix of men from different regiments – the 8th Hussars, the 93rd Highlanders, the 5th Dragoon Guards. Their tunics were draped in gold braid, but their boots were riddled with holes, some of them covered in the mud of the trenches. The close, snug room was heavy with competing smells: cooking oil and wood smoke, roastin
g meats, the slightest whiff of dung from the yard, mud and sweat. But the sweat definitely had the upper hand.
Mary Seacole had seated herself at their table, and was deep in conversation with William Howard Russell. Jack continued to eat, head down, fork continually on the move. Katie didn’t want to disturb him. This war had swung into action, and who knew when he’d get a meal like this again? A man in the corner caught her eye. He was exceptionally slender and wore his uniform with great elegance. He sported a thin delicate moustache that turned up at the ends. His dark hair gleamed, his grooming was impeccable. Katie shifted in her seat to see who he was talking to. She almost fell off her bench. It was a very young man, really still a child. He pulled a richly embroidered cloak around his shoulders and hunched over the table, his white blond curls falling forward. It was Felix.
Katie turned to Mary Seacole. ‘Why don’t you rest a bit and let me help you,’ she said and, picking up her own dishes, headed towards the kitchen. The men around the tables piled plates and cutlery into her arms as she passed. She barely made it out of the door without everything crashing to the ground.
Once she had deposited her load, she placed herself behind a pile of grain sacks, so that she could see and hear Felix without being seen herself. It was not difficult to eavesdrop on Felix. His voice was distinctive: high and whining, with a decided Prussian tinge. ‘You are right, of course,’ he was saying to his companion. ‘It is all so mismanaged, this war. But the cavalry, the waste of the cavalry is criminal, particularly the Light Brigade. You are trained to attack, and yet you have seen no action. Your Commander, Lord Lucan – he left you sitting on your heels at Alma – he’s more like Lord Look-on!’
The Queen at War Page 17