The Street Philosopher

by Matthew Plampin

  Kitson suppressed a powerful urge to run for cover. He fixed his eyes on Styles’ black jacket, and was wading up behind him when a second round of grapeshot was fired. Three privates from the leftmost company of the 99th were caught by it; their pulverised bodies were swept back over the ledge, almost into the Alma itself. Fragments of metal and flesh splashed all around. Without thinking, Kitson ducked underwater, his hands scrabbling through a ridge of smooth pebbles as he tried to force himself down as deep as possible. He surfaced a few seconds later to the sound of anguished, rasping shrieks, coming from somewhere up on the hillside.

  Styles had vanished. There was no trace of him on the gore-strewn riverbank, or in the Alma itself. Knowing he could not linger, Kitson left the water, stumbling a few steps before falling heavily on the stones. He crawled behind the shattered remains of a waterside willow and checked himself for injury, quickly confirming that, besides a few paltry cuts, he was unscathed. As he recovered his breath, he wondered if by some deadly chance Styles had been struck down by grapeshot and then dragged beneath the water by a hidden current. This would account for his companion’s sudden disappearance; it would also mean that he had certainly perished. Kitson wiped the grit from his eyes and gazed back dismally over the ruined valley.

  Something pale flashed in the corner of his vision, floating in the shallows. It was a sheet of paper, bearing a loose sketch. Styles’ folder had been dropped nearby, in amongst a cluster of large stones at the water’s edge. Landing on its spine, the folder had fallen open, and was slowly spilling its contents into the bloody Alma. Cracknell’s first Crimean confrontation with Boyce, the collapsed soldiers from the march, Madeleine Boyce on board the H. M. S Arthur–all were being carried away on the red river.

  4

  Despite Madeleine’s best efforts, the bay would not be controlled. She believed herself to be a good horsewoman, having ridden regularly throughout her youth. Never before, however, had she attempted to traverse a landscape like the charred and bloody one she found herself in that afternoon; and never before had she been atop such a horse. The bay’s hide was very dirty, and as Madeleine stroked his neck, she could see her gloves blackening with grime. She murmured softly in both English and French, but nothing seemed to be working. Indeed, the beast was becoming more agitated by the moment.

  After a short distance, the horse had turned towards the coast. It took Madeleine a few minutes even to think of becoming worried. She had brought disobedient horses to heel on plenty of occasions. It gradually became apparent, however, that the bay was not going to stop, or slow, or pay any attention to her whispering and caressing whatsoever. What worked on pampered ponies was proving completely ineffective on this brutish warhorse. She looked down at his flanks. They were scarred and scabbed by frequent spurring. He probably can’t even feel my hand, she thought, a bud of fear bursting inside her. The British line, the 99th, Richard, were all being left behind. She was now heading into French territory.

  There was only one course open to her. The bay wasn’t travelling that fast, having slowed to a brisk trot, and the grass flashing by beneath them looked soft enough. The important thing, she told herself quickly, is to launch yourself away into the air, to ensure that you don’t get trampled by the rear hooves. She gathered up the beige folds of her dress as best she could, held on to her bonnet, and jumped.

  She landed badly, her left foot at an angle, caught between two clods of earth, the ankle then twisting hard as the weight of her entire body was dumped awkwardly on top of it. Her dress ballooned around her as she put out her arms to prevent herself from pitching face-first into the mud. One elbow gave way; her shoulder hit the ground, and she rolled on to her back, suddenly still, staring up at the sky. She could feel the bay’s hooves pounding the earth, a dull rhythm that grew rapidly fainter as it continued on towards the sea.

  Barely pausing, Madeleine propped herself up and moved her elbow. It seemed to be fine–unbroken, at least. More hesitantly, she climbed to her feet. The left ankle was already starting to swell inside her boot. She tried to stand on it; the pain was so intense that she cried out. She could feel the different parts of the ankle grinding together horribly, and was tempted to sit straight back down again and wait for assistance.

  But then the sound of bugles over on the Heights made her look around. Redcoats could be seen in the forward redoubts, filling the batteries that had so frightened her before the battle began. The British had made contact. She fumbled with the purse that hung on her belt, and took out the opera glasses. A white crack ran across one of the lenses; but from her new position on the plain, the glasses now afforded an excellent view of the fighting. Awful things were happening up there. She saw a rifle pushed straight into a man’s face and fired; she saw the blood spurt from a Russian’s belly as a redcoat stabbed at him mercilessly with his bayonet. And these were but two incidents in a hundred.

  Madeleine forced herself to search for Richard amidst the turmoil. It quickly became clear, however, that this was futile. How could she possibly find him when she didn’t even know where to start looking? He might be up there on the Heights, in the worst of the combat, but then he might also be safely back in the camp, or crouched under cover on the banks of the river, or even lying dead in a ditch. She felt an absolute, helpless despair gathering inside her.

  ‘Non,’ she said out loud, as sternly as she could. ‘Non, je n’y renoncerais pas. Je le retrouverais.’ Ignoring the burning friction in her ankle, Madeleine started for the river.

  Styles clutched at a handful of grass, pulling himself from the Alma and up on to its opposite bank. He slumped exhaustedly onto his side, feeling the cold water run out from the tops of his boots, murmuring thanks to God for his safe delivery.

  An enormous explosion roused him abruptly from this torpid prayer. He sat bolt upright and took a startled glance around him as the booming knell rolled around the valley. Up in the heart of the Russian positions, a gigantic fireball was expanding into the sky, an incandescent orange sphere laced with black soot. The British artillery, he quickly surmised, must have somehow struck a powder magazine. The battle was now surely won.

  A thick trunk of smoke sprouted from the main redoubt. Styles could clearly see Russian soldiers fleeing their positions, their will broken by the seemingly divine blow that had been cast down upon them. Pressing the advantage, British infantrymen promptly surged forward into the abandoned fortifications. Rows of miniés were levelled, emptied, reloaded and emptied again. Retreating Russians fell in waves, as if tripped by long cables, their grey coats flapping as they tumbled on to the hillside. Styles, beholding this fearsome carnage from afar, felt a dark, irresistible fascination take hold of him. Unthinkingly, he reached for his drawing materials, and cursed when he realised he’d lost them in the Alma; but he continued to watch nonetheless.

  It took a woman’s scream, a piercing, incongruous sound, to break the illustrator’s morbid gaze and finally make him assess his immediate surroundings. After diving into deeper water to avoid the second round of grapeshot, he had become caught in a fast-flowing channel from which he had only just been able to free himself. It had plainly carried him a good distance downstream, far from his colleagues. There was a low stone bridge a short way to his left–it was from this direction that the scream had come. Scrambling to his knees, he crawled quickly to the top of the bank.

  To his astonishment, standing at the mouth of the bridge was none other than Madeleine Boyce, the lady who had so pervaded and tortured his imagination over the past weeks. She was sobbing with terror, trying desperately to reach cover but impeded by a severe limp. A musket fired nearby, the bullet chipping against the stone at Mrs Boyce’s feet; shocked, she tripped on her skirts, wailing as she fell. Styles followed the path of the shot with his eyes. He saw a group of bearded Cossack horsemen, presumably part of a raiding party that had been missed somehow by the line of Allied advance. They were firing upon Mrs Boyce from their saddles as they made their escape back
up to the Heights, all laughing as if it was great sport.

  Without another thought, Styles leapt forward and ran over to the bridge, scooping Mrs Boyce up and then rushing back to the bank. Further shots were aimed at them as they went, but none struck close to their target. Once they were safe, the illustrator attempted to drop to his knees and set Mrs Boyce down; but the combination of his depleted strength and her apparent desire not to let go of him meant that they ended up landing on the grass together, still wrapped tightly in each other’s arms.

  They stayed in this pose for several minutes. Beyond them, up on the Heights, the battle seemed to be coming to an end, the rifle fire becoming sporadic, and interspersed with occasional cheers. Styles barely noticed. He was absorbed instead by Mrs Boyce’s thudding heartbeat and frantic breathing; by her trembling hands, clinging to his sodden jacket; by the hard bands of her crinoline as they rubbed against his shins.

  ‘Oh sir,’ she gasped tearfully, her face laid upon his chest, ‘you saved me. You saved me from them.’

  As they lay there, Styles’ happiness was so complete that he did not entirely trust it. The situation was simply too perfect–too much like one of the hundreds of fervid fantasies he had composed whilst huddled sleeplessly in his cot. And sure enough, it soon came to an end. ‘I could not do otherwise, Madame, believe me. I—’

  At the sound of his voice, Mrs Boyce started, as if suddenly waking. She withdrew from his embrace with a promptness that made him ashamed not to have moved himself away from her first; then she stood quickly and began smoothing her damp, rumpled gown.

  He rose as well, making himself talk on. ‘That–that those beasts, those demons would fire on a lady–well, it defies my understanding, to be perfectly frank. Might I ask what you are doing out here, Mrs Boyce?’

  She retied her bonnet, which had been knocked loose, and looked him up and down. ‘Mon Dieu, Mr Styles!’ she exclaimed in feigned amazement. ‘You are soaked through! I fear that your fine velvet jacket is quite ruined. Where is your hat? Have you been in the river?’

  Styles almost smiled at this crude, oddly charming piece of evasion. He was about to reply when someone further up the river shouted her name furiously. They both turned, Mrs Boyce covering her mouth in dismay. ‘Oh no,’ she whispered. ‘Not now.’

  It was her husband, striding rapidly along the bank towards them. The Lieutenant-Colonel was drenched, and his head was bare–like Styles, he had obviously taken an unexpected plunge into the Alma. When he was still about twenty yards away from them, he stopped. His eyes were staring wide, his face purple; he seemed quite apoplectic with rage. ‘Come here, you little fool!’ he spat.

  Mrs Boyce was not in the least cowed by him. Refusing to hurry, she took one of Styles’ hands in hers. ‘Mr Styles, you have my most sincere thanks for what you did. I shall not forget this, sir.’

  The sweet tenderness of her voice was almost painful to hear. Styles looked on helplessly as she went to Boyce’s side. He seized hold of her as one would a disobedient dog, and then dragged her back the way he had come.

  The illustrator did not attempt to deceive himself. It was all but certain that she was out there searching for Cracknell, for the man she loved. But he felt a measure of triumph nonetheless. After his humiliating failure in the vineyard, he had managed to show true courage. He had saved her. Amongst the horrors of that day, the many nightmares that had been unleashed upon him, this was one shining consolation. Cracknell may have her heart; she may have risked everything just to see him once more; but he, Robert Styles, had saved Madeleine Boyce from death, and held her in his arms as she sobbed with gratitude.

  He looked to the Heights, his eyes lingering on the slew of bodies that littered the redoubts. Several union flags and regimental colours now hung above these grim charnel-houses–a British victory had been declared. Thinking to locate his colleagues, Styles began to climb the hill.

  5

  The pavilion was deserted. Several dozen chairs, all finely carved and polished, stood abandoned inside it. A once-neat crescent arrangement had been knocked to a jumble by the haste with which those who had so recently sat there watching the battle had departed for Sebastopol. A rich oriental rug had been spread out across the grass, and then kicked up by fleeing heels; champagne bottles, still dewy from having been packed in ice, huddled together in its folds like fat black fishes. Cracknell prodded a couple with his boot to discover if they contained anything. He was rewarded only with a hollow clunking sound.

  Crunching his way over broken glasses, the senior correspondent noted that the striped canvas of the awning had been torn open by shrapnel. Reaching into the pocket of his jacket, which was now almost dry, Cracknell took out a bundle of small, yellowish cigarettes, purchased from a Guards officer in the greater redoubt. He had done this somewhat reluctantly, having abjured the damned things in the past in favour of God’s honest cigar, but these were desperate times. Experimentally, he put one in his mouth and lit it. The Turkish tobacco was a touch rough, but it slid down easily enough, warming the passages and bringing that familiar, tingling sense of quietude. Cracknell sucked deep and took in the Heights of the Alma Valley.

  It was a victory. Out on the Black Sea, gunboats were ringing their bells and firing off salutes. A panoply of Allied infantry, from kilted Highlanders to red-trousered French Zoaves, crowded along the hilltops, letting out hearty cheers. Men from the Coldstream Guards had climbed atop the largest Russian fortification to raise the Union Jack, their bearskins lined up against the early evening sky like so many match-heads. The Allied armies had carried the day, and he, Richard Patrick Cracknell of the London Courier, had been there to witness it. A multitude of vivid recollections vied for prominence in his mind: the fusillades ripping back and forth through the air, the bestial frenzy of the bayonet fight, the strange, keening cry the Russians made as they swarmed out from their earthworks. He had accomplished his goal. He had seen battle up close–and it was astounding material.

  But then he turned north, moving around the spectators’ pavilion so that he could see the wide plain beyond. It was strewn with debris jettisoned from the retreating Russian Army, which could still be seen clearly as it marched back towards the Crimean capital in long, ordered columns. Not a hundred yards from where he stood was the Light Brigade–a full thousand troopers bristling with lances and sabres. The cavalrymen had scaled the Heights in the battle’s closing stages and were now eager to go after the Russians, to attack whilst the enemy was at a pronounced disadvantage.

  The order to do so, however, had not arrived. The glittering ranks of hussars, lancers and light dragoons were straining visibly, desperate to be off, like riders in some Olympian steeplechase; but for them, the starter’s gun would not sound. Cracknell blew out a lungful of smoke. He could hear the horses’ impatient snorts and the stamping of their hooves, and the angry, uncomprehending exchanges of the officers. These two elements, the jubilation on the Heights, and the immense frustration out on the plain, felt at that moment like the two conflicting sides of his own mind; a decisive victory had been won, yet now, for no possible reason that Cracknell could see other than cautious stupidity, the generals were failing signally to capitalise upon it.

  Major Maynard appeared, bearing a bundle of dispatch paper and a couple of well-chewed pencils. ‘Here you are, you reprobate. Remind me again why I help you.’

  Cracknell rounded on him, flicking away his cigarette. ‘What the deuce is going on, Maynard? Why doesn’t Raglan give the bloody order to pursue? This ever-so-organised retreat could become a full rout–the war could end today!’

  Maynard was stained with blood, mud and gunpowder, and his round face was scored with exhaustion. One of his epaulettes was missing, and his sleeve had taken a slice from a sword. ‘I–I really cannot say.’

  Cracknell took the pencil and paper, shaking his head. ‘This is gross incompetence. There really is no other word. To be unable to keep an army free from disease, or well fed and sheltered is on
e thing–but to not know how to fight with it is quite another! Prince Menshikov and his generals got a damned good look at our army this afternoon, Maynard–they’ll be running back to Sebastopol to build up their defences, and most likely wire Moscow for reinforcements!’

  ‘What do you want from me, Cracknell?’ There was exasperation in Maynard’s voice. ‘What do you suggest I do?’

  Remembering who he was talking to, Cracknell softened his manner a little. ‘Not you, Major, not you. You are a gallant hero, sir, you and all the others who came up that wretched hill.’ He looked around for something to lean against so that he could start to write. ‘But this cannot be overlooked. How the hell can I report only our triumphs when the old fools in command are committing the fighting men to many more such battles with their inexplicable inaction? I shall do something about this, Maynard–you’ll see.’

  Major Maynard’s sigh became a weary chuckle. Never had he met a man so sure of his own righteousness, so spirited in his self belief–no matter how contradictory or hypocritical his position. He had to admire this, for all the annoyance it caused. Perhaps it was the character necessary in a truly effective war correspondent.

  Over Cracknell’s shoulder, Maynard noticed a strange group emerging from the valley and making for one of the impromptu command posts that had sprung up along the Heights. It appeared to be a half-baked attempt at a regimental staff. He realised that this group were from the 99th Foot: there was Quartermaster Arthurs, rosy-cheeked and unsteady, and Lieutenant Freeman, Boyce’s sickly adjutant.

  And there, at its centre, flanked by private soldiers, was Boyce himself. He was wrapped in a blue greatcoat, not his own, which appeared to be covered in gun grease. His hat was gone, and his hair awry; and his moustache, devoid of wax, fell free across his face like the hide of some shaggy wolf-hound, covering his mouth completely. In one of his hands was his sword, which was slightly bent. In the other, quite unaccountably, was his young wife, gripped by the upper arm. She was limping badly, her fine clothes streaked with dirt, and across her grubby face were the pale tracks left by copious quantities of tears. Maynard could only guess as to how she had come to be out there. Her husband was coldly indifferent to her suffering. Boyce’s attitude was that of the steely disciplinarian, dragging an incorrigible wrongdoer off to the pillory.