‘How long have you been up?’ Katie asked.
Mary Seacole laughed. ‘At my age we need less sleep. Once you’d gone to bed, I set to cutting sandwiches and wrapping up the fowls, the tongues and the ham. There’s wine and spirits too; they’re already packed on the mules.’
Katie dressed quickly and Mary Seacole handed her a large canvas bag. ‘It’s for the wounded,’ Mary Seacole told her. ‘Lint, bandages, needles, thread and the medicines we’ve been making.’ At the last moment, Katie grabbed the walking stick; its powers might be useful in whatever was to come. Outside stood two mules, weighed down with supplies. Two more were saddled for Katie and Mary Seacole. They left the British Hotel as dawn broke.
It was a crisp autumn day. The sunlight poured down straight and direct, turning the sky an odd, flat blue. The world seemed strangely bright, but somehow only two-dimensional.
‘Just as I sensed, something’s afoot,’ Mary Seacole muttered. ‘Even the weather is all wrong.’
Katie didn’t ask where they were going. In the first place, she wouldn’t have understood. The geography of the Crimea was beyond her. Besides, Mary Seacole had what Katie would call ‘street smarts’. She was cunning, was known to tell a lie and definitely dabbled in some kind of voodoo. But Katie also knew she was a kind woman, with a big heart. If Katie had to face some kind of weird destiny, she wanted to do it with Mary Seacole at her side.
They followed the road between Balaclava and Sebastopol. The land rose sharply, and the mules groaned under their loads. At last they reached a plateau that lay between the valley of Balaclava and the trenches of the British forces. This was the site of the cannon fire; here lay the source of the siege. For now, the cannons were silent.
They dismounted their mules, and Katie made certain to hold onto the walking stick. She was amazed to find the plateau was already crowded with people. Soldiers just relieved from the trenches mixed with men in tweeds more suited to a shooting party. The ladies shaded themselves from the autumn sun with parasols.
‘Who are all these people?’ she asked Mary Seacole.
‘War tourists,’ Mary Seacole practically spat. ‘They come to experience war, as if it were a theatre, a pantomime, or a cruise along the Thames. A useless waste of space, that’s what I call them.’
William Howard Russell pushed his way through the crowds. ‘I’m in agreement, Mary Seacole,’ he added. ‘Isn’t there something in those capacious canvas bags of yours that you could give them? A fowl laced with arsenic, a cordial that produces dysentery?’
Katie laughed; she was getting the hang of Russell’s Irish humour. ‘Why are they all here?’ she asked.
‘Mary Seacole has a nose for conflict,’ Russell said. ‘And conflict is what we’re about to get. The siege of Sebastopol has failed. Our military commanders thought it would take a day, several days at worst. But the Russians have dug in and built walls of mud around their city – and those walls have blocked our cannon fire. We can’t surround Sebastopol completely, we don’t have enough men. In setting up the siege, we’ve stretched our line of defence too far.’
Katie was used to a different kind of war: airplanes without pilots, that dropped bombs on whole villages; nuclear arms that could kill millions – wars that substituted weaponry for men. This was a war that depended on the men, and the sacrifice of their lives to attain victory. ‘What happens next?’ she asked.
Russell fished his field glasses out of his rucksack, and peered into the valley beneath them. ‘The Russians are better strategists that we think,’ he said. ‘All our supplies for the siege are coming in by sea, from the harbour of Balaclava. The Russians are marching on Balaclava to try and cut us off from our supplies. They’ve already taken several of our defensive positions, and our guns. Directly below us is the only passable route to the harbour. I reckon that will be their next target. We can see it all from here – a bird’s eye view.’
A woman’s cry rang out, and Russell, despite his contempt for the war tourists, sprang to assist. Katie recognized the theatrical troupe that had travelled to Scutari with her on the Vectis. Her pulse raced as she spotted the Little Angel. The Countess Fidelia had stumbled on a stone and fallen hard. William Howard Russell helped her to her feet, and then, to Katie’s surprise, embraced her. ‘Well, if it isn’t Mary Murphy, light of the Dublin stage, and admired throughout Europe as the Countess Fidelia.’
The Countess Fidelia did not take affront. ‘My old friend Billy Russell,’ she cried. ‘God knows I’m pleased to see a friendly face, and such a well-fed one too!’ But the joy of seeing a friend turned to agony as she tried to stand straight. ‘Oh, but I’ve given my ankle a twist. I don’t think I can stand.’
Russell turned to the others. ‘I covered the famine in Ireland for The Times. The Countess here trod the boards night after night, touring the country to raise funds for the starving poor. It was an honour for us, to be entertained by such as she. She has won the hearts of many a royal sovereign, and emptied several of their pockets along the way.’
The Countess Fidelia leaned against him, half laughing at the chance meeting, half crying from the pain of her ankle. ‘Ebb and flow,’ she said. ‘Life is always an ebb and flow. Truly, I’ve entertained kings and queens, but I’ve had my share of street life as well.’
Russell helped the Countess to a carriage filled with ladies. After many exclamations, and several protests from the silk-clad war tourists, he was able to procure her a seat with them.
Katie seized this opportunity, and slipped over to the Little Angel. This might be her only chance to really find out. Even getting near the Little Angel made Katie feel strange; she had a kind of glow – not hurtful, like Felix’s, but warm and tingly. ‘You know, I’m sorry, I just wanted to . . .’ Katie began awkwardly, and then blurted out, ‘Do you know me?’
The Little Angel’s eyes became even larger. She stood very still. And then she took Katie’s hand in hers. ‘Everything but your name,’ the Little Angel replied. ‘I’ve known you for hundreds of years. And I certainly recognize your walking stick . . .’
A wave of relief washed over Katie. For the first time in her life, she could talk to one of her own kind. Princess Alice was as understanding as anyone could be, and Katie had won James over with time. But here before her was someone who had experienced what she had, knew how she felt and could share her burden. ‘I’m Katie Berger-Jones-Burg,’ she said. ‘It’s scary, isn’t it? The seeing stuff, the knowing stuff.’
The Little Angel nodded. ‘I’ve seen so much – war and revolution, plague and famine. I’m frightened and sickened by much of what I see. Perhaps it is a gift, to be part of the Tempus. But at times I am angry – it’s as if I am being used, just a tool in their Great Experiment.’
Katie tightened her grasp of the Little Angel’s hand. ‘So you are the Chosen – the Tempus? I thought so. You know about Lucia and the Verus, Belzen and the Malum?’
The Little Angel smiled sadly. ‘Not everything, but enough.’
They had begun their conversation in the middle, the way twins talk. Katie couldn’t believe that she finally had an ally. ‘Are they here? Lucia, Belzen?’ Katie asked. It struck her that the Little Angel wasn’t little any more. It was difficult to place her age. She seemed several years younger than Katie, but the look on her face was far from childlike. It was, indeed, hundreds of years old.
‘Do you get it?’ Katie quizzed her. ‘That the Verus need our form of communication to live, that’s why war has to be stopped? And the Malum – they feed off brute force, so they want this war? Belzen especially wants a war to end the world.’
‘I get it, as you say,’ the Little Angel replied. ‘And I’ve had more time, so I know much more.’
Katie thought she’d never seen a person look so sad. Was it to be her own fate to become this sad? ‘Can we get free of them?’ she asked.
The Little Angel shook her head. ‘I don’t believe we can, and I’m not certain we should. What Lucia and the Verus
want of me is not such a bad thing. I shouldn’t have spoken of feeling sad, of being used. Lucia wants peace and I can help – it’s my reason for being. This battle is important. I have a purpose and today it will unfold.’
They were interrupted by a burst of cannon fire. The battle had begun. Katie moved to the edge of the ridge and looked down. Beneath her was the valley, leading to the port of Balaclava. The sea sparkled in the distance. The Russian infantry advanced with solemn stateliness up the valley. They looked powerful, threatening. Was Jack going to fight them? As she peered down, squinting, William Howard Russell seemed to read her mind. ‘Yes, he’s down there,’ he said, with some sympathy in his voice. He rummaged in his pockets, and came up with a spare set of field glasses. ‘Look through these,’ he said. ‘You’ll find the cavalry forming up directly below. That bright line of red is the 93rd Highlanders. Sir Colin Campbell and his men will be our main defence of Balaclava.’
Sound echoed from the valley. Between the cannon bursts one could hear the champing of bits and the clink of sabres in the valley below. The Russians drew breath for a moment, and then in one grand line dashed at the Highlanders. There seemed to be so many Russians, and just a thin line of Highlanders to defend the British position. What, Katie thought, could this little wall of men do against such numbers and such speed?
Russell stood beside her, tense and watching. ‘Steady now, Sir Colin,’ he muttered. ‘You have something those Russians don’t – the Minié. No one else has such a powerful and precise rifle.’ As the Russians swept up the valley, Sir Colin Campbell rode along the line, calling on his men to ‘stand firm and die there’. Above them, Russell, Katie, Mary Seacole and the Little Angel stood stark still, as the mass of Russians galloped on. The small number of Highlanders looked like a thin red streak, tipped with a line of steel.
At around 1,000 yards the Highlanders fired their first volley, but the Russians continued on. The Highlanders fired a second time, but the Russians were undeterred. It was only with the third volley of rifle fire that the Russians wavered. They pulled up, surprised by the accuracy of the Minié rifle. Then they bent sharply to their left and rode back towards their own men.
‘The Highlanders, they’ve done it,’ Katie exulted. ‘They’ve fought off the Russians.’
The Little Angel put a cautionary hand on her arm. ‘This is just the beginning,’ she said. ‘This is not the time to celebrate.’ Katie looked into her field glasses. The Russians were reforming, to attack again. But this time the Highlanders were not alone, as a flank of cavalry moved down the hills to join them. Frantically Katie scanned the ranks, dreading to see the face she knew.
‘Lord Raglan has called in the Heavy Brigade,’ Russell assured her. ‘Your fine lad is encamped on the Highlanders’ flank; his commander, Lord Lucan, is reluctant to fight. Young Jack, much against his will, just might be safe from harm.’
With a fierce battle cry, the Heavy Brigade charged. They smashed through the Russian cavalry, each side raising their swords in hand-to-hand combat. It was the Russians who lost their nerve and, turning, galloped back down the valley, pursued by the Heavy Brigade. From the hillsides, British infantry reinforcements were arriving. It was not likely that the Russian cavalry would attack again.
‘Balaclava has been saved,’ William Howard Russell cried. All around them, the spectators were cheering.
‘It’s over!’ Katie exulted. Jack was safe.
William Howard Russell continued to scan the valley beneath them. He turned his gaze up the hills, to the defence positions the Russians had taken earlier. ‘I believe it’s far from over,’ he said. ‘I can see the Russians. When they first stormed the hills they captured British guns, and now they are removing them, rolling the cannons back into their own territory.’
Katie was busy helping Mary Seacole check the mule packs. There were certain to be wounded down in the valley. ‘But we’ve won,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it better to leave well alone? They just have a couple of our guns, two or three cannons.’
‘Just a couple of guns,’ Russell said. ‘Lord Raglan won’t see it that way. Legend has it the Duke of Wellington never lost a gun in battle. And you must know how Raglan, nay, the entire country, feels about the Duke of Wellington. Raglan will never permit his guns to be paraded by the Russians as trophies through Sebastopol.’
This all sounded very silly to Katie. ‘So what’s he going to do?’ she asked.
William Howard Russell searched the hilltops for the British leader. ‘He is certain to order the recapture of his guns.’
Katie’s heart sank. She lifted her field glasses and turned her eyes to the heights where Lord Raglan was positioned, commanding the battle. He was far away, on the other side of the valley, and at first was simply a blur, a tiny dot of man and horse. She adjusted the field glasses. It was hard to see – dark clouds flitted across the flat blue sky; the light and shadow affected her view. Her eye was caught by a young man, really almost a child, riding up to Raglan and offering him something. Unusually for a soldier, the young man had long, fair hair that stood out against the dark that surrounded him – white curls waving down his shoulders. It was Felix, exactly where he ought not to be, at the heart of the British command.
‘What the – !’ Katie exclaimed. The Little Angel moved closer and peered over her shoulder, as if she could see without the aid of glasses. She put her arm around Katie, and then, as Katie watched, everything became much clearer. Felix was talking to Lord Raglan, and Lord Raglan was writing something down, almost as if he were taking dictation. As the letters sprang from his pen, Katie could read them. She might have been holding the paper inches from her face. It was the closeness of the Little Angel and the strange power that words had over her. The message leapt out:
To Lord Lucan: Lord Raglan wishes the cavalry to advance rapidly to the front – follow the enemy and try to prevent the enemy carrying away the guns. Troop Horse Artillery may accompany. French cavalry is on your left. Immediate.
In her excitement she said the words aloud. ‘I too see clearly,’ the Little Angel whispered, ‘I can see the plan now.’
William Howard Russell looked at them both. ‘You girls must have had a touch too much of the sun. Either that, or this is a hoax. You could not possibly see a message from this distance! It’s hard enough to get a good view – the sky is so unsettled. Lord Raglan would have to be mad to give such an order.’
Mary Seacole put her arm out to Russell, trying to silence him. ‘Hush now,’ she said. ‘Don’t ask, just watch and listen. You will know more than any man alive about this battle if you do.’
Katie continued to stare at Lord Raglan’s piece of paper. As she did, the words opened up a vista – she could see everything, close up and far away at the same time. She was like her own camera.
‘Tell us Katie,’ Mary Seacole said. ‘Tell us everything.’
‘Lord Raglan is passing the message to another man.’ she said. It’s that thin, elegant man I saw at the British Hotel. What’s his name, Newland, Nolan?’
‘Captain Nolan,’ Russell answered. ‘One of the fastest men on horse, but hardly a reliable messenger.’
‘Nolan’s down the hill now, with the other men on horseback, right below us,’ Katie continued. ‘Did you say that’s the Light Brigade? He’s talking to someone with a lot of gold braid on his uniform; they’re directly under a large black cloud. It must be their leader.’
‘That will be Lord Lucan,’ Russell answered, ‘and it won’t be a pleasant conversation.’
Lucan was arguing vigorously. His arm swept to the right, towards the British guns in the hills.
William Howard Russell looked worried. ‘If Raglan’s message was as unclear as you say, then Lucan will have no idea what to do,’ he said. ‘Prevent the enemy carrying away the guns – are you certain that was Raglan’s message? Well, which guns? There are the ones the Russians captured; there are also guns at the top of the valley, and yet more on the lower slopes of the heights.’
Katie continued to stare at the two men, deep in dispute. Captain Nolan was not making the situation any easier. Katie could read insubordination in his every gesture. He was waving vaguely – not in the direction of the captured guns, but towards the far end of the valley, towards an area heavily fortified by Russian guns, cavalry and infantry. ‘I think he’s going for the other guns, the ones further away,’ she said.
‘Then God help us,’ William Howard Russell replied. ‘Captain Nolan is sending our men into the arms of death.’
A soldier must obey, even a soldier as adverse to danger as Lord Lucan. He reeled his horse around, and took the order further down the line.
‘The argument is still going on,’ Katie said. ‘But now it’s Lord Lucan and another guy in a very decorated uniform.’
‘It will be Lucan and Cardigan,’ Russell said. ‘And here lies more folly. The two are brothers-in-law, but detest each other. They will never be able to resolve this.’
Lucan leaned forward over his horse, to get as close to Cardigan as he could. He nodded and gestured, at one point poking Cardigan with his finger. ‘Lucan is furious; he insists Cardigan obeys the order,’ Katie told them.
Lord Cardigan returned to his men. Katie could see the Light Cavalry taking up formation. She searched her mind for Jack’s regiment. ‘Are the 17th Lancers down there?’ she asked.
Russell looked at her with pity. ‘They are my dear. The 17th Lancers are the first in the line. They are being led by Cardigan himself.’
‘But he’ll be OK?’ She wanted assurance, but none was forthcoming.
‘If they actually do charge, I reckon it’s a good mile to the Russian position,’ William Howard Russell calculated. ‘It would take the Light Brigade seven minutes to cover the distance – seven minutes surrounded by the enemy, with artillery and musket fire to the right of them, to the left of them and directly in front of them – all from an elevated height. If Jack can get through that, he’ll be all right.’
The Chronicles of the Tempus Page 40