The Street Philosopher (28 page)

‘Mrs Seacole,’ said Godwin. ‘Are you settled aboard the
Medora
?’

He looked past her towards the abandoned munitions vessel moored on the far edge of the harbour that had been assigned to this redoubtable lady as her base of operations. All three of its masts had been sawn down for firewood; it was a sorry, broken thing. Godwin suspected that giving this old hulk to Mrs Seacole had been somebody’s cruel idea of a joke.

The lady’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘It is comfortable enough, thank you, but I think I shall try to find myself something a little more … permanent.’ Her South Seas accent purred softly through the word. ‘I heard you talking about this man here. Is he a friend of yours?’

Godwin sighed. ‘An orderly, madam, and a most capable one. Injured during an errand I sent him on, by the looks of it.’

‘And now he must be loaded on to a hospital ship. You are afraid he will perish before he reaches the hospital in Turkey–which he surely would, by my reckoning.’ She reached into a large leather satchel on her shoulder and produced a roll of clean bandages. ‘See to your soldiers, good sirs. I will take this man aboard the
Medora
. What is his name?’

‘Thomas Kitson, Mrs Seacole, but there are forms I must complete, and—’

Ignoring him, she crouched down beside the stricken orderly and began binding his wound. ‘There, Thomas,’ she said gently. ‘Mother will look after you.’

Doctor Godwin stopped talking. Like most at the harbour, he did not know exactly what to make of Mary Seacole. A mulatto nurse claiming to be an army widow, she had come
out to the Crimea at her own expense and was utterly set upon helping the soldiery, for whom she seemed to have a boundless affection. The surgeon supposed she was simply a member of the strange carnival that sprang up along the fringes of every war; he was quite sure, though, that no harm could possibly come to Kitson in her care. He looked to Harris, who shrugged. The decision thus made, both turned towards the man laid out by Kitson’s side. There were tears running down his face, and he was mumbling inaudibly to himself.

‘Who’s this other one?’

‘Don’t know the name. He’s from the
London Courier
, apparently.’

Godwin studied the civilian’s wound. The crude dressing was soaked, but the wound beneath was not desperately serious; the musket-ball had missed the bone by over an inch. He had lost a lot of blood, which had no doubt precipitated his present delirium, but not so much as to suggest that an artery had been punctured. There were many more grave cases arrayed along the dock; Harris was already losing interest, his attention claimed instead by a shuddering private a few places down the line. It occurred to Godwin that he could spare this fellow both the long voyage to Scutari and the disease-ridden hospital at its end.

‘Well, as he has no military duties to perform, I see no reason why he shouldn’t go back up to the plateau. All this needs,’ he said loudly to the man, ‘is regular bathing, fresh bindings and a long period of bed-rest. Do you hear? You write your reports from your cot, sir.’

The man seemed to nod, but did not stop his mumbling or focus his staring eyes.

Doctor Godwin started re-dressing the leg. He shouted for an orderly; one ran up a few seconds later. ‘This man will be on the next cart back to the camps. Ensure that he is taken to the tent of the
London Courier
–someone will know where it is.’

The
H. M. S. Mallory
kept her distance from Sebastopol, steaming in a wide loop around the mouth of the inlet that held the besieged port. Her passengers, however, shared none of this cautiousness. They rushed over to the deck rail as soon as the enemy’s base came into view, whipping out a great arsenal of telescopes and binoculars. Five tall ships had been scuppered in the harbour to form a barrier against hostile vessels. The waters of the Black Sea covered their hulls completely; hundreds of gulls could be seen perching upon the bare remains of their masts. To either side were large coastal batteries, studded with cannon. There was some thrilled chatter as artillery rumbled over on the plateau, sending up clear trails of smoke.

These passengers were, for the most part, that species of traveller referred to somewhat dismissively as
war tourists
: boys barely past adolescence visiting idolised elder brothers, unscrupulous would-be novelists and artists hoping for some exciting material, or simply wealthy loungers seeking diversion. The few professional men on board found themselves to be completely outnumbered. Charles Norton and his sonin-law Anthony James, not wishing to spend any longer cooped up in their cabin, were obliged to stand next to the roaring paddle-box in order to escape the crowd and review their notes.

They were making this hazardous journey for the sake of William Fairbairn’s cherished project–a floating mill and
bakery. Such a machine, he had told them with his usual enthusiasm, would be able to supply the entire British Army with fresh, wholesome bread, and would be entirely safe from contamination and disease. It sounded positively absurd to Charles, but he had humoured the old goat; a trip to a war-zone to indulge one of his whims would place him very firmly in the Norton Foundry’s debt. James, however, had listened to him ramble on with genuine interest. And now, on the morning that they approached Balaclava, he was revealing the conclusions he had reached about the possible design of this unlikely contraption. It could be built on a base of two iron-screw steamers, he said in his intent, enthusiastic manner; a simple process of adaptation could produce an engine capable of grinding up to a thousand pounds of flour every hour. As they passed Sebastopol, rounding a steep headland, he began to go into further detail. Norton looked away, out to sea.

He had learned much about his son-in-law over the course of their two-week voyage. The man’s brain never seemed to stop working. He was always sketching out plans, jotting down notes or poring over one of the scientific volumes he had lined along the sides of his valise; or he would be nodding in silent agreement as he read unsavoury radical journals such as the
Westminster Review
or the
London Courier
.

James was formidably ambitious, far more so than Norton had ever realised during the eighteen months or so that they had been acquainted. Charles had always considered him devilish clever–he had valued him for it, in fact, and been pleased that his daughter had married someone who could match her in this regard. On occasion, however, when they spoke, Norton was sure that he detected appraisal in James’ eyes, as if the fellow was looking him over and making an unfavourable assessment. He sees a failure, Charles thought, a man of limited vision and accomplishments who has risen as high as he ever will; someone whose lack of ability has held back his own business and who, at the age of fifty-three, must still jump at the Fairbairns’ every command. He compares himself against me and is determined to do better, damn him, both for himself and for my daughter.

Balaclava’s bay was so crowded that the
Mallory
had to wait for over an hour before it could unload its passengers. Norton found that he was immensely tired and a little nauseous, and wished only to sit upon dry land; James, meanwhile, was noting down names of ships and making drawings of the hills around them. They were told that they had to disembark quickly as their vessel could only be at the quay for twenty minutes. It would then be taken to the rear of the bay, returning three days later to collect them and sail back to Liverpool.

The docks were jammed with people, military and civilian, drawn from a range of nationalities. It was far from the ordered British base Norton had hoped for. Army liaisons came forward to meet some of the war tourists; others obtained directions from officials and trailed off into the town in groups of two or three. Norton peered up the lanes after them, rapidly concluding that Balaclava was about as uninviting a place as he had ever encountered. It was positively medieval in aspect–were it not for the shabby uniforms one would not think one was in the middle of the nineteenth century at all. He resolved to remain as close to the sea as possible. Then he glanced down into the water and saw a decomposing camel bobbing in a stew of offal and splintered wood. The sight was so hideous and unexpected that he almost cried out.

His son-in-law, however, was unsurprised by their surroundings. ‘It is quite as bad as has been reported, isn’t it?’ he said calmly, adjusting his pebble spectacles. ‘If a firm was run like this, Charles, it would sink within a week.’

Norton, a hand over his mouth as he tried to hold in his last meal, did not answer.

James looked around. ‘Where is our Royal Engineer?’ he asked. ‘Mr Fairbairn said that there would be one here to meet us.’

‘I do not know,’ Norton replied, lowering his hand impatiently. ‘How the deuce
would
I know, Anthony? I’m sure he’ll show himself in due course.’

James hefted his valise on to his shoulder. ‘I could take this chance to climb around the side of the bay and begin the survey. Do you object?’

Norton indicated that he did not, thinking that Anthony James could jump off the blasted harbour for all he cared. He walked along the dock, keeping his eyes on the horizon and taking a cigar from his coat. As he lit it he could not help looking back at the camel. The animal had drifted a short distance out into the bay; he watched as it was caught in an undertow, its stiff legs breaking the surface and revolving grotesquely.

Forcing himself to turn away, he noticed that James had fallen into conversation with a disreputable-looking character with a wild black beard, evidently some kind of camp parasite or confidence man. They were shaking hands, getting along famously. Norton sighed, wondering if he should intervene; for all his energetic intelligence, James was a touch naïve and an easy mark indeed for an obvious ruffian like that. He decided not to. Perhaps such an experience would teach the fellow some humility.

Wandering further up the quay, puffing absently on his cigar, Norton passed the rows of injured. Rivulets of blood and urine were flowing across stones from where they lay, intermingling and running over the edge of the harbour into the sea. As he stepped between them, he heard a deep, authoritative voice up ahead. Looking up, he saw that it belonged to a senior regimental officer. This man stood several inches above the officials, civilian surgeons and Commissariat clerks who bustled around him. His undress uniform was startlingly clean and bright beneath a new-looking fawn surtout; upon his face was an immaculately maintained moustache of rather formidable proportions. To the dazed Norton, he seemed a figure of absolute proficiency–someone who could impose order even on such a rancid mess as Balaclava.

This officer was talking to the captain of the
H. M. S. Mallory
. Could this be their elusive contact in the Royal Engineers? After a brief discussion, the captain did point Norton out; but as the officer came over Norton realised that he was from the infantry. He asked Norton’s business genially enough, though, and even nodded in apparent approval when the Fairbairns were mentioned. Introducing himself
as Colonel Nathaniel Boyce, he said that he was in the town trying to use what personal influence he had to secure additional provisions for his men. The basic problem, he explained, was that Balaclava was just too far away from the main camps to serve as an effective supply base.

‘But there is a railway being built, isn’t there?’ Norton inquired, rather flattered to have the undivided attention of a colonel. ‘I’m sure I read something about it during my voyage.’

Boyce smiled thinly. ‘There is indeed, sir. You engineers keep each other well informed. It is to go up the hill to Kadikioi, then on to the camps, eventually criss-crossing the whole plateau. I understand that the surveyors have been here for several weeks already and the Chief Engineer, a Mr Beatty, has just arrived.’

‘You seem to know a good deal about this undertaking, Colonel Boyce.’

‘How could I fail to take an interest, Mr Norton, when it will have such an effect on the lives of those under my command?’ Boyce paused; when he spoke again, his voice was loaded to an almost imperceptible degree. ‘Besides, I am on good terms with the Quartermaster-General’s department. I receive regular bulletins on the progress of the railway. The Great Western Railway has supplied the tracks, and the contractor, Mr Peto, has supplied the sleepers and various other sundry parts–points and so on. I happen to know, however, that they only have enough spikes to last until Kadikioi. More will be required, many more, by the middle of March.’

Norton blinked, completely astonished by what the Colonel seemed to be inferring. ‘Is–is that so, sir?’

Boyce met Norton’s eye. ‘Speed is the priority here, Mr Norton. The railway is not being constructed to British standards. Come, let me show you what they have done so far. We will have dinner afterwards, up on the plateau, where we can discuss this matter further. And you must stay at my farmhouse.’ He looked over at the line of sick redcoats with a sudden, aristocratic coldness. ‘There is disease here.’

Bidding the Colonel to wait for a minute only, Norton conducted a quick search for James. He was nowhere to be
found, but Charles could not allow this great chance simply to slip away. After leaving word of his whereabouts with the captain of the
Mallory
, he started through Balaclava at Colonel Boyce’s side. Anthony James was a resourceful man, he told himself; he would be fine.

‘Ah, the saintly Madeleine!’ called out her husband. ‘Rescue many of my men today, did you, oh holy lady?’ The officers around the table laughed. Boyce gave Lieutenant Nunn a sly, rather unpleasant wink, as if trying to make his adjutant complicit in his mockery.

Nunn moved uncomfortably in his chair. Mrs Boyce was, in his view, a remarkable woman, who deserved far more gentlemanly treatment than her husband bestowed on her. Nunn wasn’t in love with her, of course. A good soldier did not allow himself to develop futile fascinations with his commander’s wife, and he had let this opinion be known to those among his peers who had made such an open point of their devotion to her. He could not deny, however, that she was a rare beauty, and privately thought that the months she had spent attending on the campaign had only improved her appeal. It was as if the baubles of fashion had not enhanced her loveliness but obscured it, and now, as she stood in plain bonnet and skirts, her hair tied up simply, her beauty could shine with its full radiance. Displaying no emotion, he avoided his commander’s gaze, ignored the mirth of his fellows, and shifted his position so that he was staring blankly at the fire.

Mrs Boyce removed her faded bonnet and cloak. Before she left the room, her eyes flickered over the Colonel, ably communicating all of the abhorrence she felt for him. They heard her chamber door slam behind her.

Boyce laughed, reaching for his wine. The Colonel was in uncommonly high spirits. They had a guest that night: in between Majors Fairlie and Pierce sat a grey-whiskered, bushy-browed chap of fifty or so, a civilian engineer, looking about him nervously like a mouse trapped in a nest of crimson-jacketed adders. This was unusual, to say the least. Boyce was not known for his hospitality, especially towards
those who lacked both military rank and an old family name. Nunn was growing convinced that it had to be part of a mysterious scheme–part of what Major Maynard had hinted at on the day of Inkerman when he had challenged Boyce over Wray’s disappearance from the battlefield. He had been unable to discover much more about this afterwards. There had been a closed hearing at the brigade headquarters involving the men from the
London Courier
, but nothing had come of it. Then Captain Wray had been invalided back to England at the end of November, even though he had seemed entirely healthy. Something had happened, and it was going on still, but the Lieutenant could not for the life of him work out what it was. No matter how unsettled his conscience, his wits were just too slow.

Boyce instructed the servants to bring some fresh bottles; Nunn felt a twitch of distaste at the sound of his voice. He suppressed it quickly. There was no proof of anything, he reminded himself. Colonel Boyce was his commanding officer. From his earliest days in the service, it had been impressed upon him that this relationship, and the absolute loyalty that went with it, was the bedrock of the British Army.

Major Pierce began to talk about the
London Courier
, explaining the situation to their guest in the crudest terms. Nunn despised Pierce. The Major was the worst kind of army bully, as vicious as Wray had been but fat and loudmouthed with it. He was proposing that they mount a raiding party to go over to the correspondent’s tent and ‘do him in’, as he put it. The Irishman was so widely hated, Pierce maintained, that the list of suspects would be hundreds strong. Nunn was quite sickened that this dis-honourable notion could even enter the head of a major of Her Majesty’s Infantry. Their civilian visitor was plainly a little taken aback as well.

Boyce seemed inclined towards tolerance, both of newspaper correspondents and violently minded majors. ‘The
Courier
, Mr Norton, is nothing more than an organ of splenetic radicalism, to be avoided and distained by all people of intelligence. I feel that it is hardly shaming for me to be slandered in its pages–quite the contrary, in fact.’
He turned to Pierce. ‘So for now, Major Pierce will bloody well let him be.’