The Street Philosopher

by Matthew Plampin

  The sight of Boyce calling Wray from his company dispelled these reflections. Maynard knew that there was a long-standing bond between the two men; something to do with their families, he suspected. It certainly led to all sorts of preferential treatment for the cruel, unpopular Wray. He watched as Boyce issued a sequence of very precise instructions to his nodding Captain, and then handed him a crude iron key.

  ‘This will open the hut where the fellow is currently being held,’ he heard Boyce say. ‘And no one must know we have it, Archie, d’you hear me? Absolutely no one.’

  Wray saluted, summoned two corporals to his side and headed off into the mists. Maynard’s eyes widened in disbelief. Boyce had just ordered the Captain of his grenadier company from the battlefield in the middle of an engagement. He would have an explanation for this, rank be damned.

  Then the Russian cannons fired, the shells detonating somewhere above them. A hand slapped on to the Major’s shoulder, a little too hard and loose for comfort. As he turned, Hendricks collapsed forward into his arms. Shrapnel had torn into his back. A sharp point of black metal jutted out from the middle of his abdomen. He whispered something, unintelligibly quiet, a name perhaps, blood welling from his mouth as he spoke, and running across his cheek in a red rivulet. Maynard leant in closer, and asked him tenderly to speak up; but Hendricks could offer no reply.

  5

  The road from the camps did not end so much as disintegrate, the single mud track breaking into a profusion of smaller paths like the branches of a tree departing from the trunk. There was no indication as to which might lead to the pickets. Cracknell selected one and they hurried along it; but, after leading them several hundred yards up an undulating, rocky hillside, it petered out. They were left at the mercy of the fog.

  The noises of battle were everywhere–the shouts, the clash of steel, the popping and blasting of gunpowder–but they came in a riotous clamour, and were effectively useless for the purposes of guidance. Indeed, they seemed to suggest a number of different directions; Kitson suspected that many were echoes, bouncing between rocky ravines and cliff-faces. The Courier team looked at each other. None had spoken since their melodramatic encounter with Madeleine Boyce and Annabel Wade. Cracknell was scowling at his juniors around his cigarette, plainly having decided that both Styles’ intemperate advances to Mrs Boyce and Kitson’s interruption of the illustrator’s dressing-down were signs of grave disrespect; and Styles was mired in a baleful, disconsolate silence, deliberately allowing the cut on his forehead to bleed unchecked. Kitson turned away, amazed by them both.

  He felt something against his face–the faintest hint of a cold breeze. ‘Come,’ he said impatiently, heading towards it. ‘This way.’

  After fifty yards or so, the hillside levelled out into a long, flat-topped ridge. The sea wind struck Kitson full on, grating his throat raw as he breathed it in; and a heavy layer of fog melted away. He saw that they stood close to a rocky outcrop, beyond which was a wide expanse of sloping ground, growing gradually steeper as it ran down into the Chernaya valley. In the centre of this slope, about two hundred yards from their position, was the brown block of the Sandbag Battery. Greatcoated soldiers from the two armies could be seen packed around it, battling hard against each other. More men dropped every second, adding themselves to the mounds of dead; but new troops from both sides were streaming in constantly, directed by their commanders to rush into the abattoir.

  ‘At bloody last.’ Cracknell sucked in a last lungful of smoke from his cigarette, flicked the butt away and took out a field telescope. This magnified view of the fighting made even the indomitable senior correspondent falter for a second. ‘The–the Guards are down there,’ he reported, summoning back his steadiness. ‘I can see the bearskins. Coldstreamers, I believe. They seem to be pulling back.’

  Kitson took out his pocketbook and started to write. He noticed that Styles had fallen to work also, rapidly delineating the landscape before them on a piece of drawing paper.

  ‘The Russians are different,’ Cracknell continued. ‘At the Alma they had spiked helmets. These ones are in caps, a sort of brimless cap. Reinforcements, I should think, from the mainland … Ye gods, there are thousands of them. A fine spot we’ll be in if—’ He stopped suddenly. ‘The 99th are there. I can see Maynard.’ Cracknell was growing excited, his equilibrium vanishing. ‘They’re in front of the battery. They’re … damn it all, they’re totally over-extended. Why the devil would Maynard do such a bloody foolish thing? He knows better than this!’

  Even without the aid of the telescope, Kitson could see all too clearly what was happening. Three fresh regiments of Russians, several thousand men, were moving up the slope from the valley, driving back the main body of the British force; but one group of soldiers, only a few hundred strong, had pressed too far forward, past the Sandbag Battery and a good way down towards the River Chernaya. Soon they would be entirely encircled by the enemy. Kitson stopped writing, all words eluding him. These soldiers were surely doomed.

  A nearby blast sent shrapnel clattering among the rocks of the outcrop. As well as affording them a view of the battlefield, Kitson realised, the partial retreat of the fog had exposed the Courier men to the sight of a pair of Russian gunboats, which had sailed out to the mouth of Sebastopol harbour. Another shell exploded, slightly closer this time; a shard of flying metal nipped a chunk from Kitson’s coat. He looked around. Close to their position was a series of narrow ravines, leading into the Chernaya valley.

  ‘There!’ he cried. ‘Quickly!’

  Cracknell dashed past him, leaping into the first one he came to. Styles hesitated, not through fright but a reluctance to leave their vantage point. Kitson grabbed his sleeve, dragging him to the ravine and all but pushing him in.

  Together, they skidded down to its floor in a small landslide of stones and mud. It was dotted with gorse bushes, rocks and spent cannon-balls, which lay clustered and inert like gigantic black marbles. Cracknell was already on his feet, clearly exhilarated by the plunge. He made a few quick observations about the Russian ordnance that had just been directed at them–exploding shells fired from ships were apparently a recent Russian innovation–and then announced that they would follow the ravine out into the valley, circling back around to the left towards Inkerman Ridge.

  Kitson got up, rubbing at a bruised elbow. They could not hope to survive in the bloody mayhem they had just seen from that outcrop. To believe otherwise was madness. ‘Towards the battlefield, you mean?’ he asked tersely.

  Cracknell, sensing his objection, rolled his eyes. ‘Yes, Thomas, towards the battlefield. To observe. That is what we are here to do, you remember! Besides, it behoves me, as a friend, to discover how Maynard is faring.’ He began picking his way through the rocks and bushes.

  ‘And what precisely are you intending to do, should you discover the Major to be in dire trouble?’ Both knew that the revolving pistol, following its submersion in the River Alma, was locked away in Cracknell’s sea-chest, acquiring a light film of rust. ‘D’you expect us to leap into the middle of a pitched battle armed only with our pencils?’

  The senior correspondent continued on his way. ‘I’ll ignore that,’ he said crossly, without looking around. ‘Don’t make me talk to you about courage, man!’

  Cracknell had not taken ten steps out into the valley before bullets started to strike the ground around him. He quickly retreated back into the ravine, pointing towards a low cave, half-hidden behind a large slab of stone. The three men rushed inside. It was surprisingly deep, filled with a rich vegetable smell and the sound of dripping water. Moss coated every surface, a strange, pale phosphorescence glittering within it, making the walls of the cave sparkle and shift as they passed. They did not pause to appreciate this magical effect, however, instead scurrying rapidly behind a pile of rocks close to the cave’s end.

  Kitson crouched down and attempted to catch his breath. He looked over at Styles. The illustrator was curled up in amongst the rocks; hi
s face was entirely hidden in the shadow thrown by the brim of his cap, nothing but a black profile against the weak glow of the cave wall. Cracknell, who was peering over their cover, prodded Kitson’s shoulder. Rising to his knees, the junior correspondent saw a group of Russian infantry out in the ravine, stepping from stone to stone with their muskets ready in their hands. He hunched back down with a shiver. Then, to his horror, he felt a hand close around his boot.

  ‘Vadaa,’ whispered a voice faintly. ‘Vadaa. Pozhalujsta.’

  A young Russian soldier, no more than sixteen, lay hidden in the darkness at the back of the cave. His head was bare, his eyes were sunken, and the lines of his skull were clearly visible beneath his skin. His thin neck was covered with flea bites; his musket, which looked as if it dated from the previous century at the very latest, was propped up against a rock. The body of one of his comrades, clearly dead, lay on the floor beside him.

  Outside, the searching Russians called to each other. The soldier forced out a few more words through parched lips. His meaning was clear enough.

  ‘He wants water,’ Kitson said quietly. ‘I have none. Have you any, Cracknell? Styles, how about you?’

  The soldier grew angry as his request was not met. Speaking with more strength, he hauled himself up to a sitting position and looked over them with scorn in his eyes. He had heard the men outside, and realised the power he had over these three lost invaders. He started to raise his voice. Kitson moved forward, making placatory gestures, speaking softly; Cracknell offered the soldier a cigarette. This was knocked aside. The soldier jabbed an accusatory finger into Cracknell’s round belly, spat out a few hard-sounding words, and put a hand on the stock of his musket.

  In the months that followed, Kitson tried many times to recall exactly when he had realised what was about to happen there in the cave. It was certainly at a point when it was too late to do anything to prevent it. He had watched Styles rise to his haunches, and pick up a stone about the size of a man’s fist; he had watched him twist around, leaning back into the cave; and he had watched, his mouth now open, as the illustrator struck the stone against the side of the soldier’s head with all the force in his body. Whether or not this had killed the boy soldier outright Kitson would never know, but there had been a dreadful sound, uncannily like the breaking of china, and he had slumped to the ground beside his lifeless companion.

  Cracknell leapt to his feet, putting a hand over his mouth to stifle an involuntary exclamation. Styles leant back, letting the stone drop on to the cave’s floor, where it clacked down amongst its fellows.

  They remained in silence for some minutes. Eventually, Cracknell said, ‘Well, that was certainly one way to deal with him.’ His voice was hoarse and forced, a ghostly approximation of his usual tone.

  Styles stared out of the cave. ‘The fog’s settling again,’ he said impassively. ‘Those soldiers will have trouble spotting us now. I think we should leave.’

  Kitson knew that he had to collect himself. He clasped his hands together and nodded firmly. ‘We–we should go right, though, I feel. Up the valley. Inland.’

  Cracknell nodded also, for once too shaken to assert his authority. ‘Agreed.’

  Without a backward glance, the three men left the glittering cave and headed off into the fog.

  6

  The Russian lifted up his musket, the tip of the bayonet blade finding purchase in the heavy stitching of Cregg’s white cross-belt. Cregg was pressed up hard against a large boulder, his arms pinned underneath him. For approximately the eighth time that morning, he told himself that it was all over–curtains for Dan Cregg. With no last thoughts occurring, he looked into the face of his killer. The man was old, at least fifty, his beard full of grey hairs, his wrinkled skin the colour of walnuts. He had that same sour, leathery smell that all of the Russian infantry seemed to have. With a hollow cry, he drove the bayonet forward.

  To the great surprise of both men, instead of sinking into the helpless Cregg, the blade bent crazily, folding almost in two. The Russian overbalanced, falling into Cregg’s lap. Freeing his arms, Cregg heaved the man away–this was not difficult, he was light as a bird–and grabbed his minié. His bayonet did not bend.

  ‘Did you see that, Major? Did you?’ he shouted as he rose to his feet. ‘The bastard’s blade buckled up like it was tin!’ Maynard, who was busy reloading his revolver, did not answer. Cregg went through the dead soldier’s pockets. There was nothing of interest within; the fabled vodka ration, in particular, was nowhere to be found. He swore bitterly and gave the old Russian a kick.

  Of the three hundred men who had accompanied Colonel Boyce on his wrong-headed advance to the Sandbag Battery, well over a third had already fallen. Many of Cregg’s best pals had been cut down before his eyes. He’d seen young Toby Lott, only seventeen, shot in the hip and then bayoneted as he lay screaming in the mud; Scraper Jones, a filthy fiend if ever there was one, lose his jaw to a six-pound ball, and then put a bullet in his own brain to end the torment; and the Pitt brothers, all three of them, blown into a jumble of parts by the same shell.

  The contested battery had been far more heavily defended than Boyce had realised. Somehow, the companies under his command had been forced down into the Chernaya valley, a drift that Major Maynard had tried his hardest to halt and reverse; but their formation was broken. Russian reinforcements came up to meet them, and as they sought to regain their bearings, they were subjected to a brutal attack. The companies were split and scattered, and all sense of ranks, tactics and strategies lost. Men fought where they stood, thinking only of surviving the next few minutes by whatever means possible.

  Cregg had found himself pushed back to a loose cluster of rocks by concentrated musket-fire, along with sixty or seventy of his comrades. There was a sizeable area of level ground in the midst of these rocks, about forty feet across–like a sort of natural fort. It was already carpeted with dead Russians, whose bloody bodies squelched underfoot as the British soldiers rushed to find cover. The sight of Major Maynard fighting alongside them had heartened him a good deal; whereas that of Boyce, off his horse by now and huddled in a rocky corner, refusing to lift arms with those he had so royally buggered, had the very opposite effect.

  Another dozen Russians appeared over the top of the rocks, bawling at the top of their voices as they leapt down towards the waiting British. One fired off his musket. The ball seemed to snag Cregg’s left hand, pulling it back sharply and making him drop his minié. Knowing full well what this meant, he clutched at his wrist and forced himself to look. The hand was a bright, ugly mess, broken and twisted like a crab smashed with a hammer. One finger was gone altogether, another was little more than a shard of white bone. A panicked scream started to gather deep inside him.

  It never reached his lips. The Russian who had shot him, a giant of six foot or more, struck him on the side of the head with his rifle-stock, and Cregg went down heavily. The man stepped over him, spinning the musket around expertly to ready his bayonet. Cregg barely had time to register what was happening, his mind still full of that image of his ruined hand, and the hot agony that now burned up his arm.

  Then the man stumbled, and was flung violently to the ground. The sounds of Major Maynard’s shots were lost in the uproar of battle, but all three had hit home. For good measure, he put another into the Russian’s twitching body before turning towards the dazed Cregg.

  ‘Get that hand bound immediately, Private!’ he shouted, shaking the flattened percussion caps from his smoking revolver. ‘Use one of your comrade’s tunics–I’m sure they wouldn’t begrudge you the use of it. And be sure to bind it tightly!’

  Maynard strode towards the highest of the rocks, his sword at the ready. The enemy had been driven back. They had won themselves a moment’s respite. Yet as he stood there, a breeze carried a good deal of the fog away, and he could see the next regiment of Russians starting the ascent to their position. More of the enemy had moved around to their flank, as he had guessed they wou
ld, preventing a retreat. Eleven of his men had fallen before this latest wave. They wouldn’t last much longer. Maynard didn’t feel any fear or anxiety; only an immense fatigue, and annoyance that so many good soldiers had been thrown away like waste paper. Taking off his left glove, he looked at his wedding ring. It would be pillaged from his body, and sold on in some pawn shop in Russia, or Turkey, or England, for gin money or whores. He took it off and, crouching down, dropped it into a narrow crevice in the rock.

  There was a theatrical groan behind him. He turned wearily. Boyce had taken a bullet in the shoulder, which had knocked him from his horse. It was a very minor wound, one that needn’t have stopped him from fighting by Maynard’s estimation, but Boyce had laid himself out like Nelson at Trafalgar. Lieutenant Nunn had been removed from combat to attend on his stricken Colonel, and crouched uncertainly at his side, unsure of what exactly he should be doing.

  Maynard realised that it was time to ask. There might well not be another opportunity. ‘Where is Wray, Boyce? Where did you send him?’

  ‘I’ll thank you to remember my rank when you address me, Major Maynard!’ Boyce barked imperiously.

  Maynard ignored him. He stared hard into Nunn’s eyes for a second–a look that said, listen well to this. ‘I saw you give him a key. What was it for?’

  Boyce was looking down at his blood-stained jacket with a pained expression. ‘Captain Wray was dispatched by me to undertake a vital task on behalf of the regiment, away from the battlefield.’

  ‘Vital task!’ Maynard didn’t bother to conceal his fury. ‘What the hell can be more vital than this?’ He waved his sword at the dead heaped around them.