"In the meantime," John interrupted, "little or nothing has changed. We continue to survey the terrain, blast when necessary, lay the tracks and drive the spikes."
Brassey nodded, losing patience. "Of course, of course," he muttered. "But under different conditions."
"How different?" John asked.
"My God, are you totally dense?" Brassey exploded. "Didn't you hear what I said? The Russian Army is in complete disarray. They pose no threat now. To anyone."
John smiled as though he were dealing with a child. "Did your courier tell you that, Mr. Brassey, your half-frozen British courier who is beginning to wonder if he'll ever get his feet warm or see the hop fields at harvest time?"
Brassey glared down at him, the exchange becoming as angry as the one the day before. "I must confess, Eden," Brassey went on, making an effort to rein in his anger, "I am as baffled as ever by you. In a way, your assistance on this project has been invaluable, and in another way you have made it one of the most complex and difficult undertakings of my career."
"Then I offer my apologies and tender my resignation," John replied. "Give me a horse to get back to Balaklava, and I will not further impede your progress in any way."
Apparently the deliberate manner in which he had spoken only served to enrage Brassey further. He stepped closer to the cot. "What precisely is it that you want, Eden?" he shouted. "I've followed your suggestions from the beginning, frequently against my better judgment when my natural inclination was to toss you out."
John rose, though not with any sense of outrage. "Then why didn't you, Mr. Brassey?"
For a few moments a taut silence filled the tent as the two men faced each other. At last Brassey stepped away from the encounter, one gloved hand pushing back the unruly white hair. "I've one more piece of news, gentlemen," he announced coldly from the tent opening. "I have this morning given orders for the scouts to return to their jobs on the line. With their numbers, ten days will see us to completion, and we all can leave here."
Suddenly John stirred, his earlier air of relaxation replaced by shocked anger. "You've . . . done what?" he demanded, following after the man.
Brassey turned, a faint smile on his face. "I believe you heard me well enough, Eden. In essence, what I've done is regain command of my own men, my own expedition."
"Your men?" John shouted, his outrage filling the small tent. "To what extent are they your men? Does that give you the right to jeopardize their lives? At least give them arms if you call in the scouts."
"They are navvies, not soldiers," Brassey snapped. "Most of them illiterate at that. They wouldn't know one end of a rifle from the other." He turned toward the tent opening and jerked the flap back. "And the scouts are in," he added, "have been since midmorning, doing what they have been trained to do, which is to build a railway."
For the first time he looked sharply at Willmot as though in the simple act of sharing a tent with John Murrey Eden he shared his madness as well. "And what are you doing in here?" he shouted. "Number Three Section needs a foreman. I believe that's what you were hired for."
Taken aback by this tone of voice from the man he revered, Will-mot struggled with an explanation. "It was my relief, sir . . ." he began. "I was on the line until dawn—"
"I've been on the line since yesterday morning," Brassey boasted, "without respite."
He paused as if to see if any further rebuttal would be forthcoming from any quarter. Willmot looked across at John, saw his eyes leveled, some private assessment going on inside his mind. Blessedly he kept silent, as though aware of Brassey's state of mind.
As for Brassey, the silence now seemed to anger him as much as words. "Nothing further to say?" he demanded sarcastically of John. "I can't believe it. That tongue motionless? For the first time?"
As his voice rose in sarcasm, Willmot was forced to look away. It was as though the man were disintegrating before their eyes. Of course, Brassey had admitted to no sleep in over thirty-six hours. Then why didn't he have the good sense to take himself away until . . .
Then he did. He looked back into the tent for a final time, all of his attention focused on John again. "Forgive the . . . harshness of this exchange, Eden," he muttered. "I would be less than honest if I said anything but that your services to me have been . . . invaluable." Then he was gone.
"He's mad," John said quietly, staring at the tent opening flapping in the wind.
"Just fatigued," Willmot corrected, turning back to his cot. The encounter had worn him out and left him as baffled as always. What peculiar forces were at work between these two men?
He sat wearily on the edge of the cot and urged John to, "Come. No point in pursuing it further. It's not so bad," he added. "Home by the first week in April. Surely you have no objection to that."
John looked at him, an expression of incredulity on his face. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then apparently changed his mind. Without a word he retrieved his heavy gloves from the end of the cot and left the tent, and left Willmot to puzzle over both his expression and his sudden exit.
Willmot shrugged. No point in asking what the sense of it all was. In an unnatural situation, men behaved in an unnatural manner.
That was all.
March 21, 1855
From the top of the high plateau, John could just see the first light of dawn. Below, the bonfires which followed the line resembled a hundred small suns, while the real one on the black horizon paled in comparison.
He'd lost track of the numbers of times he'd been up and down the line, his attention divided between the navvies on one side and the blackness on the other. Now almost frozen and in need of a fresh horse, he was starting down toward one of the fires.
Night was by far the worst, and for the last three, since that afternoon when Brassey had revealed himself to be wholly mad, John had appointed himself a search party of one and had spent each night riding the escarpments which bordered the narrow canyon where Section Three was being laid. If there was need for a cry of alarm, his most surely would be weak and inefficient. But it would be better than nothing and it might give the unsuspecting navvies an extra minute to find a mount and perhaps a weapon.
With less than four hundred yards to go, he drew up on a level stretch of ground for one last look. Below in a red-black scene that looked like something out of Hades, he saw the navvies working, the resounding echo of their hammers and picks shattering the still night. There were little more than two hundred in all working on Section Three, the tip of the spear known as "Brassey's Miracle." The others were working at various places back down the line, crews following the branch lines in all directions.
But this particular terrain, at least in John's opinion, was the most
dangerous. On either side, this formidable escarpment dissolved into flat plains pierced at a few points by old roads which were largely impassable, though once they had been the main routes to the front before Brassey and his men had arrived.
Again John looked down on the feverish activity. Lower down he saw the small tent city, the gray smoke of early-morning fires beginning to rise and mingle with the fog of night. In a way it was a peaceful scene.
Perhaps he had been wrong all along. Who was he to second-guess the Russian intent? Surveying the dawn in a wide arc, John lifted his head and thought unexpectedly of Eden, a world remote from this one, warmed by the channel breezes in spring, the headlands a soft carpet of wildflowers, little Mary weaving him a crown of clover while Richard read aloud to all of them the latest offerings from Mr. Wordsworth. And Harriet, close beside him, her beautiful hair undone and falling over her shoulders, one slender hand finding John's in the protection of thick clover, their fingertips just touching, nothing visible even to the most watchful eye.
He bent his head lower. It was easier to think on the dead and wounded of the Crimea than to dwell on the dead and wounded of Eden.
It was while his head was still down, his thoughts fully occupied, that he heard a peculiar dist
urbance, little more than a distant rumbling, as though the supply wagons had arrived earlier than usual from Section Two.
Harriet. Was she dead or alive?
What was that noise? Hadn't he told them repeatedly not to bring up the supply wagons until the shifts had changed? Let the crew going off do the unloading rather than sap the strength of the fresh crew. How many times did he have to tell the foremen before—?
Suddenly he looked up, the new sound clearly audible over the picks and hammers of the crew below. Horses? Surely not.
The noise was increasing, hundreds of horses, or so it seemed. From where he sat astride his horse, halfway up the incline, John looked down to see if anybody else had heard it. Apparently not. The exhausted navvies appeared to be moving at half-speed, many of them looking toward the tents as though hoping to catch a glimpse of their relief shifts.
The increasing sound now seemed to filter dully through his head. Perhaps it was merely an echo of distant troop movement. The rocky ridges and valleys of the Highlands were like that, filled with down-
drafts and echo chambers. But as the sound increased, he sat erect and looked in all directions.
Whatinthe. . . ?
As his alarm increased along with the noise, John was on the verge of reining his horse about and climbing back to the top of the escarpment. But no sooner had he brought his horse about than his eye fell on the escarpment across the valley. In the half-light of dawn there appeared to be dust rising on that distant ridge, either that or mysteriously swelling ground fog. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear the fatigue and looked again. Now the silhouetted outline of the rocky escarpment appeared to be changing shape, the rock jut-tings growing, then diminishing, the entire horizon line alive with mysterious movement.
Urging his horse up the rocky incline, he tried to look backward and keep a steady vigil on the ridge across the way. The black horizon line now possessed a life of its own, as within the instant it seemed to elongate into a solid black layer that had not been there before.
God . . .
Suddenly he leaned forward in his saddle. The sun had at last spotlighted certain specifics. The new layer atop the ridge was a solid line of men on horseback, and the rectangle of black to their rear appeared to be . . . artillery.
Yet a moment later he held still, his mind grasping frantically at the possibility that they were British troops, or French. But what would British troops be doing poised on top of the escarpment looking down on their own, with a fortification of artillery behind them! And why would . . . ?
The sun singled out a color, not the cherry-red tunics of British squadrons, but the somber gray overcoats of Russians.
It was the last coherent thought he had, for at that moment a battle cry arose from the throats of hundreds of men across the valley, and John saw wave after wave of Russian infantry start down the incline, swords flashing in the new dawn.
In spite of the rising sun, John watched the incredible sight enveloped in a sense of darkness. From where he sat in his position of safety on the opposite ridge, he saw the sleepy-eyed navvies look up at the thundering descent as though at a mirage, no one making the smallest effort to prepare himself for the descending waves of Russians. From the tent settlement he noticed other men, still holding their coffee mugs near the small fires, their suspenders down about
their waists, many drawing curiously forward as though to get a better look at this most peculiar spectacle.
At that moment he saw a fiery explosion at the top of the escarpment, heard the dull report of the Russian artillery in place now, and a moment later the shell exploded near the front of the tracks, a dusty flaming cosmos spewing out fragments of men, the single volley seeming at last to raise the alarm as now the terrified navvies commenced running in all directions.
The first line was upon them, the Russian horses stampeding through the disarray, the riflemen pulling back as though realizing belatedly that there were no effective arms here, and swords were quite adequate to the job.
John felt the breath choking in his throat as he looked from one scene of terror to another, the encounter scarcely worthy of the name "battle." "Massacre" would be more appropriate, as wave after wave of fully armed Russian soldiers swept down and through the unarmed navvies, a few men trying to fight back with picks and hammers, the earth around the newly laid track glistening red in the rising sun.
In spite of the shouts and cries, a heavy curtain of silence dropped over John. The sounds of battle grew muffled, the tension within him stronger. At last he felt the heels of his boots digging into the horse, saw in that last moment of lucidity a wounded navvy fall backward into a bonfire, heard his shrill cries as his body twisted grotesquely, consumed by the flames.
Then John was moving, the gray overcoats coming closer, their sense of victory transfiguring their countenances, laughing with relish as they pursued the navvies.
In a flurry of hooves, John crashed into the Russian center, into the mass of men jostling and screaming. To one side he noticed a fallen Russian soldier, slipped from his horse, his boot still caught in his stirrup, being dragged by his frightened mount. With deliberation John angled his own mount into position, then urged the horse forward to top speed, directly over the man's head until at last it cracked, the upper part of the skull seeming to shift as blood poured out of the eye cavities and mouth.
Without hesitation John reached down and relieved him of his sword in time to raise it into the face of the second soldier, who obviously had witnessed the act. Without taking aim, John raised the sword to the man's throat and plunged it forward, a curious smile on
the soldier's face as he fell backward, John feeling for the first time the pulling sensation of the blade as it cut through human flesh.
On horseback he was able to see better than the navvies who were run to ground while in the very act of trying to escape, though now as a gray overcoat started toward him John urged his horse to a short retreat, then turned about and saw out of the corner of his eye blood dripping from his sword, then again plunged blindly forward at the Russian soldier, striking with a single thrust in the heart. At some point he was no longer conscious of who he was or what he was doing. His only goal was to stay erect on his horse while inflicting as much damage as possible to those who swirled about him.
The fighting began to break up into a series of isolated encounters, and still John looked in all directions at the Russian soldiers, who continued to emerge out of the fog, and at the fallen navvies strewn about the ground, a few trying to drag themselves away from the battle, only to be trampled underfoot by the horses.
The churned-up ground was slippery with mud and blood, causing more Russian soldiers to slip from their mounts, thus providing the navvies who were still on their feet with ready weapons. Thus armed, he saw them fling themselves at their stolid and determined foes, Russian soldiers now joining the wounded on the slippery ground.
To one side he saw a familiar figure engaged in hand-to-hand combat with a Russian soldier over the possession of a sword, but at that instant a cloud of smoke separated them and John urged his horse in that direction, sword raised, shouting, "Willmot . . ."
Through the smoke, he brought his horse up short in time to see the soldier in possession of the sword, raising it high in the air and plunging it into the man's stomach, the beloved face turning before he fell, meeting John's eyes.
The Russian looked up at John's approach, as with one cry he ran the man through. As he jumped down from his mount, he pulled his sword free, the soldier stiffening for a moment, then going limp.
"Jack," he shouted, turning back to the man who lay facedown in the mud. As he struggled to lift him, he was aware of his horse running off, but was aware of little else, save the man in his arms, the blood spreading over his coat, his eyes closed against the pain.
"Get... to your horse," Willmot whispered. "Get to. . ."
John held him close and looked about, trying to find a safe harbor. But he saw
nothing but screaming men and fleeing horses, and he held Willmot closer in a convulsive grip, something cold splattering against his face now, one large black horse coming nearer, its rider
elegantly garbed in a spotless gray overcoat, spiked helmet on his head, something glittering overhead, drawing yet nearer until at last John saw the glittering something poised over him, their eyes meeting in that single instant. Then a sharp force of indescribable weight cut into his right shoulder, dislodging Jack Willmot from his arms, the soldier on horseback looking down on him as waves of pain swept him into a safe warm darkness. . . .
He was enjoying a peaceful walk along the headlands of Eden with Jack Willmot, on his way to visit his father's grave, when without warning the darkness lifted.
At first he saw nothing but shadows. He was cold, though there was an isolated caldron burning in his right shoulder. His head was resting on something damp and faintly moving, and as the shadows receded into mosaics of light and color, he realized that he'd returned too soon.
He knew where he was. Little had changed except his own helplessness. The noises about him, those too were different, the air no longer rent by stampeding horses and exploding rifles. Now all he heard were moans and cries for help, and one voice very close panting, "Jesus. . ."
Recognizing the voice, he made the mistake of trying to lift himself with his right arm. As the caldron in his shoulder exploded, the agony seemed to lift him, then drop him again, where through glazed eyes he saw Jack Willmot, in profile, his head pressed backward into the blood-soaked ground, his hands clutching at his stomach, his teeth chattering.
"Jack," he whispered, trying to move closer in an attempt to warm the man with his own body. In the process he glanced down at his right arm, saw the arm and hand coated with blood. If only he could go back to sleep again. If only sleep would claim him, or death, anything that was black and feelingless.
But neither sleep nor death would have anything to do with him, and he was forced to drag himself to a half-sitting position, Will-mot's head in his lap now.
The Eden passion Page 38
