Sitting at the desk, he looked at his latest report thoughtfully, puffing on his cigarette, and then picked up his pen. At the bottom of the page he wrote, ‘The Tomahawk of the Courier’.
Well pleased with his labours, Cracknell decided to venture out. The flaps of the tent were stiff with frost. He had to force them apart, as if he were pushing his way out of a cardboard box. The cold seemed to close around his face, making it ache most unpleasantly. He considered turning around and going back inside, back to bed. Then he reminded himself that there was no food in the tent, and hardly any liquor. He had to forage.
The morning sky was a deep, smooth blue. Sunlight was breaking slowly over the cliffs, turning the tents that covered the plateau from dull grey to shining white. Bearded men wrapped in russet rags moved about in amongst them, dazed and shivering. Surveying the camp as he trudged by, Cracknell felt a profound sense of wrongness. This was not how a military camp should appear at the outset of the day. It was so deathly quiet. There were no bugles sounding the reveille or calling men to their early parades; there was no drilling, no saluting, no shouting at the cack-handed soldier who fumbles with his rifle. There was no clanking of pots, no hissing of butter in pans, no smoke from fires rising up between the dense rows of canvas points. Indeed, the only smoke to be seen came from the chimneys of the cottages given to the senior officers. And very snug little holdings they look too, he thought, turning himself in their direction.
In his now confirmed role as the messiah of Crimean discontent, Cracknell knew that he would be unwelcome at pretty much all of those cosy farmhouses. His fame had inevitably spread in the army camps as much as it had back in England. It had made him a good many enemies. Cracknell didn’t mind this in the least; he had always had enemies. The midnight shouts of abuse outside his tent, the threatening gestures and the efforts to impede his work all encouraged him. And he was openly celebrated, he found, amongst the aggrieved and the disillusioned. His arrival in a sympathetic hut or tent was often greeted with cheers, and he would be slapped on the back as he strolled about the camps–even as others swore in his face. There were officers among his friends, naturally, but few of these ranked above major, and none had been graced with lodgings of stone and mortar.
Cracknell carried on towards the farmhouses regardless. Up on the Heights at that time of day, they were the only places where food was to be obtained. Furthermore, there was one house among them with which he had a more than passing acquaintance.
Boyce had been fortunate indeed after the carnage of Inkerman. The Courier’s charges against him, and its ill-fated attempt to have him brought to justice, sank without trace–as did the incriminating painting that Wray had stolen from the villa. Cracknell tried to plant a few seeds of inquiry, seeds that would not lead Codrington back to him, but none took root. In fact, much to his disgust, tales had quickly circulated instead of Boyce’s valiant conduct under a punishing fire; of his reckless but incredibly brave advance; of the inspiring manner with which he beat back the Russians, kept his companies together, and held his position against desperate odds until reinforced. Official recognition, however, had not been possible. The 99th Foot had lost more than one hundred and twenty private soldiers as a result of their commander’s foolhardy tactics. But there was much approving talk nonetheless, despite Cracknell’s best efforts to pre-empt or contradict it; and, before long, a rumour of a reward.
Sure enough, not five days later the undeserving blackguard was installed, along with Madeleine and his servants, in a solid, single-storey farmhouse on the southern edge of the Light Division’s camp. This building had weathered the great storm with scarcely the loss of a roof-tile. It had tidy, commodious rooms in which fires were kept roaring for many hours of the day, and hot meals were regularly served; and low, wide windows that had, on occasion, permitted the rapid escape of a rather broad-bottomed Irishman.
Cracknell’s intention as he walked towards Boyce’s farmhouse was thus to enter through the yard, slide open one of these windows (he had one at the back in mind) and see what victuals lay within easy reach. Madeleine, he knew, would not be around. Miss Wade liked to get her out early. He did not mind this absence in the least. That morning, Cracknell found that he could contemplate a spot of theft with crafty pleasure, but the thought of having to make the declarations of eternal, undying love that had become a condition of Madeleine’s company (and the sole route into her undergarments) brought him only an oppressive sense of tedium.
A sentry was posted before the front door. Cracknell redirected himself slightly, affecting a casual demeanour. This soldier was a typically forlorn sight, his uniform in tatters, hugging his rifle close to him as if the wood might emit some warmth if it was squeezed hard enough. Seeing Cracknell, the mangy looking man unfolded his arms and started in his direction. The correspondent quickened his pace.
‘Sir!’ the soldier croaked. ‘Stand for a moment, sir, will you? Just a word, sir!’
The voice was oddly familiar. Cracknell stopped and turned. ‘How may I help you, soldier?’
‘Pardon my interruptin’, sir, but the Major told me all about you.’ The soldier was talking quickly, plainly a little agitated. ‘An’ I’ve ’eard others a-talkin’ since–’ bout ’ow you’re an awful enemy to all them what’ve left us out ’ere to rot–an’ to Boyce in partic’lar…’
Cracknell peered closely at the battered features, which were partly lost behind a patchy, colourless beard. ‘My apologies, soldier, but have we met before?’
‘D’you not remember, sir?’ For a second, the man feigned offence. ‘Ah well, s’pose there was plenty afoot that day. At the Alma, at the base of the ’ill, by the river. You crawled out of the waters like an ’arf-drowned cat. An’ you told us that Boyce was dead.’ There was accusation in his voice as he uttered this last statement, as if the correspondent, with this error, had somehow been responsible for preserving the Colonel’s life. ‘Dan Cregg’s the name.’
Cracknell had no memory of this encounter. He could recollect the river and his little swim in it, and then Major Maynard leading the assault, but that was all. ‘Ah yes, of course. Cregg. Yes, of course, of course. It gratifies me to see that you are still in one piece, man. Veterans of both the early engagements and this accursed winter are becoming rare indeed.’
Cregg chuckled sourly, which brought on a cough. ‘Ha! Yes sir, true enough, among the ranks at any rate. We’re what y’might call a dyin’ breed.’ He coughed some more. Cracknell noticed that his right hand was swaddled in a thick mitten, whereas the other hand was bare. ‘But then, can’t say I’ve ’scaped entirely, sir.’
Cregg drew off his mitten with a pained grimace to reveal a mangled mess bound together with filthy bandages. As far as Cracknell could tell, only two functional fingers remained. Haltingly, the soldier then told the story of how he came to be injured, of Boyce’s arrogant errors, and Maynard’s senseless death. Standing in the sharp morning air, Cracknell grew steadily more interested. He gave Cregg a cigarette and encouraged him to enlarge upon what he was saying. Was he not tempted, the correspondent asked, to make more of the wound, and get himself shipped home? It looked rather serious, after all–could he even fire a rifle?
Cregg, however, was quite adamant. He was going to remain in the Crimea come what may. At first, Cracknell thought that in this unlikely looking mongrel of a man, he might have found a hero amongst the common soldiery, a noble warrior to hold up for the admiration of all England in the pages of the Courier–a moving counterpoint to the incompetence of those who commanded him. But as Cregg talked on, it became very clear that this was no popular champion. There was something unsavoury about him, Cracknell decided, a touch of the cut-throat, perhaps, of the criminal. He was hardly fit to be paraded before the crowd. And his motive for remaining at the front was not patriotism, nor was it a desire for decisive victory over their foe, nor even a loyalty to his brothers in arms; at least, not to those who still breathed. Cregg wanted to stay in the Crimea so t
hat he could get his revenge on his regimental commander.
When he spoke again of Inkerman, his voice a low, nasal snarl, he positively shook with loathing. ‘’E took us out there, and then ’e ’id behind a rock.’ E ’id himself away, nice and safe, and left it all to the Major–as bleedin’ usual. My mates was droppin’ all around, and there wasn’t nothing we could do. And then the Major…’ Cregg looked at the ground. ‘The… the Major was a decent cove.’
‘I knew him,’ declared Cracknell stoically, ‘He was decent indeed. Honourable.’
The soldier met his eye. ‘Aye,’ e was. I’ve never known ’is like. An’ ’e was put through ’ell, sawn up and who knows what else–all ’cause of that cunt in there.’ Cregg glared at the farmhouse door. ‘That cunt–all ’e does now is sit about on ’is arse, complainin’ about the lack of action. As if ’e’d know what to bleedin’ do if action came! Prob’ly just get a whole bunch more of us killed.’ E shouldn’t get the chance. And by the devil, even if it costs me neck,’ e won’t get the bleedin’ chance.’ He stopped talking, and sucked furiously on his cigarette.
Cracknell studied Cregg’s face, trying to work out if he would really take the action he threatened. It was a dull, angry red, the lower lip protruding, and trembling slightly. This man is in the grasp of all manner of powerful emotions, the correspondent thought, emotions which his confined, feeble mind cannot fully comprehend or manage. He talks of bold, savage deeds, but then many angry men talk of violent things that they dare not do. His assertions concerning Boyce’s behaviour on the battlefield, though, were all too easy to believe. Such behaviour was typical of the man–unlike the heroic yarn of headstrong courage that had been spun by certain of Boyce’s peers. Opponents this deserving, Cracknell thought with fierce, righteous purpose, are rare indeed. The correspondent took out his pocketbook, resolving that Cregg’s account would form an electrifying addition to a future report from the Tomahawk of the Courier.
A sergeant-major approached the house. Throwing away his cigarette, Cregg slunk back to his post, and responded sullenly to the questions and instructions directed at him. Cracknell, scribbling busily, moved around to the side of the house, in the direction of its small yard. Pausing alongside a window, he leant his back against the cold wall.
He had laid down two lengthy paragraphs when an oil lamp was set on a table just inside the dirty window. He could hear voices. It was Boyce, a servant, and a couple of his officers. Cracknell stopped writing and listened.
‘And this is really all that can be provided for us to breakfast upon?’ Boyce was saying irritably to the servant. ‘Bacon with eggs and beans? What do you think I am, man, a Yankee cowpoke? Are there no lambs’ kidneys to be had on this entire peninsula?’
‘General state of things is pretty wretched, sir, to be fair,’ muttered someone in response.
Boyce sighed, as if he were the most put-upon fellow in all the Crimea. ‘Very well, bacon with eggs and beans it is. Upon my honour, that it should come to this.’
Soon, the smell of frying bacon suffused the farmhouse, seeping through the window frame and up Cracknell’s nostrils. His stomach began to growl so loudly that he moved a few feet along the wall for fear that the noise might give him away. He thought of Cregg, standing guard outside the front door, forced to endure the same torturous odour with nothing to look forward to but an ounce or two of hard biscuit and a piece of salted pork from an animal butchered before the campaign had even begun.
Cracknell reread the paragraph he had been writing. Its level of severity suddenly seemed desperately inadequate. He drew a line under it and began again, his features slowly lighting with a grin of acerbic glee. Just wait until the bastard reads this, he thought. It’ll put him right off his blasted bacon.
The breakfasting officers started to talk about Balaclava, Boyce declaring that he was riding down to the port that afternoon. There were some civilians arriving, he claimed, old friends of his brother’s whom he was keen to see. An officer–Major Pierce, poor Maynard’s unworthy replacement–offered to accompany him. Boyce refused rather curtly, and promptly assigned Pierce a tedious regimental task that would keep him occupied for the rest of the day.
Cracknell realised that he had overheard something significant; Boyce, he could tell, was lying through his teeth. He stopped writing. Balaclava, he thought–now there’s an idea.
4
Mr Kitson’s skin was white as a fish-belly, and dreadfully clammy to the touch. Ever so gently, Annabel lifted him up on to his side, revealing a back sticky with congealing blood. There were two wounds, both to the upper abdomen, neither now bleeding with any persistence, praise God; but it was quite plain that he needed proper medical attention as soon as it could be secured for him.
She turned, looking for Madeleine. They had been walking along the Worontzov road, heading for the camps, when they had passed a French mule-train, bearing the night’s sick and injured down to the harbour. This was hardly an uncommon sight, yet something had made Annabel stop; and then she saw them, Mr Kitson and Mr Styles, lashed to one of the wooden litters at the very rear of the column. She had raced over without explanation, and was now unsure if her companion had managed to keep track of her.
There she was, though, those slender shoulders hunched against the cold, making her way unhurriedly along the line. A large proportion of those on the litters were insensible. The rest moaned and shrieked with every bump on the road; some, delirious, let out burbles of maniacal laughter. Their clothes, such as they were, were blotched with blood, bile and excrement. The mules, smelling the blood and sensing the suffering, were braying in distress.
Madeleine was angling her head so that the rim of her bonnet blocked all but the road beneath her boots. Arriving at Annabel’s side, her face wore an expression of confused, slightly petulant distaste. Then she noticed the men tied to the litter–the unconscious, pallid Mr Kitson, and his dishevelled colleague next to him, who clutched at a poorly bandaged thigh with his eyes squeezed shut, squirming around as if in the throes of a terrible dream. She gasped with shock, raising her hands to her face.
‘Are–are they alone?’ she demanded, staring frantically at the adjacent litters. Annabel looked back at her uncomprehendingly. ‘Are they alone, Annabel? Tell me! Is Mr Cracknell here with them? Have you seen him?’
Now Annabel understood only too well. She frowned. ‘No, dear, he’s not here. Do not think of him–I’m sure he’s perfectly fine, that one.’ Standing up, she put a placatory hand upon Madeleine’s arm. ‘We must go back down to Balaclava with Mr Kitson, Madeleine. Otherwise…’ Annabel looked around at the other men in the column. ‘Otherwise I fear he will certainly perish along the way. Pass me the canteen, will you?’
Madeleine didn’t hear her. ‘No–I must find Richard. I must!’ There was panic in her voice.
Annabel tightened her grip on her friend. ‘Madeleine, you are coming with me to Balaclava,’ she said strictly. ‘You know that you can’t simply wander off around the camps on your own. Please listen to me, my dear. You have not the first clue where that man might be.’ Inwardly, Annabel cursed the smirking face, the swaggering confidence, the very blasted boots of Richard Cracknell.
As tears filmed Madeleine’s eyes, Annabel moved forward and embraced her with firm tenderness. ‘Listen to me, child. He is well. You must trust me on this. These men are not. We must help them if we can. We must do the Lord’s will.’
Madeleine rested her head on her friend’s shoulder, rubbing at her eyes. ‘The Lord’s will, yes,’ she murmured. ‘The Lord’s will.’
With the permission of one of the French drivers, the women climbed up on to the two closest mules, joining the column as it advanced through a bleak, brutal landscape. The gullies between the colourless hills were choked with the decaying corpses of horses and oxen. Heavy clouds had smothered the early morning sun, and a putrid smell hung all about. Vultures cawed hideously to one another, their black and white wings beating at the still air. Even
the accursed Cain, Annabel thought, would scarce deserve banishment to such a blighted territory. It seemed that few animals could easily survive there but those who sustained themselves on the flesh of the dead. There was no hay to be had anywhere; no one appeared to have considered what their horses would eat during that winter. Off to the east, Annabel could see two near-spectral creatures, looking truly apocalyptic in their emaciation, straining to drag a stout mortar along a ridge. That both lacked manes and tails, having had them chewed away by their starving fellows, only added to their ghastly, otherworldly appearance. She thanked God for the sturdy, omnivorous constitution of the mule she was riding, and gave the beast’s rough, grimy hide a clapping pat.
As if in mockery of her gratitude, a few minutes later a mule towards the head of the column let out a scream as one of its hooves twisted in the frozen ruts of the track, breaking the leg. Two drivers held it down, intending to wait until the rest of the party had passed before ending the animal’s pain. The men on its litter, knowing that they would be left with the dead mule, at the mercy of vultures and wild dogs, begged those trudging by them for help. None were able or willing to supply it. Annabel hardened herself, knowing she could not go to them, blocking her ears to their imprecations.
After the shot had rung out and the drivers returned to the column, she looked around at Mr Kitson. Her mind teemed with awful questions. Was choosing to save him above those poor wretches abandoned back there, or indeed above any number of others, somehow an offence to God? Was it the result of soulless, practical reasoning, bred by war and the constant presence of death? Was her ability to make such choices, such judgements, an indication of a grievous sinfulness at the very core of her being? She had no answers; but no regrets either.
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