A minute later Kitson started into the advance parallel. It zig-zagged madly from the base of the forward battery towards the Russian fortifications, feeling out the line of the next parallel proper, running a good fifty feet beyond the main British position. Out here, as treating casualties in Balaclava had shown him all too clearly, the danger posed by sharpshooters was acute. He pressed himself against the side of the trench, in the hope that it would afford him some cover, and moved gingerly along it. The advance parallel was not as well worked as the others, nor as deep, its sides crumbling wetly to a floor no more than five feet below ground level. There were no soldiers at all in the length of the trench, and at first Kitson had thought it unmanned; but then he reached a rifle pit, its canvas cover peppered with musket-ball holes, and heard voices grumbling in its dark recesses.
He listened out for the sound of engineers at work–the clang of hammers, the scrape of shovels being pushed into earth–yet was greeted only by a stagnant hush. Carrying on along the parallel, he caught an unexpected noise beneath the squelching of his footsteps; a faint scratching that was both familiar and out of place. It was a pencil, moving rapidly across paper. This was not someone writing, though. The strokes were too long, too rhythmic. This was the sound of drawing.
Kitson edged along another few yards, around an acute corner; and there, sitting with his back against the trench wall, was Robert Styles. Swathed in the assemblage of the worn, ill-fitting garments that served so many as winter clothing, he was now heavily bearded, his cheeks hollow with malnourishment. His eyes were hidden in shadow beneath the brim of a fur-lined cap.
Styles was sketching away furiously in a small book, the open page angled to catch the moonlight. Before him, in a puddle, lay a dead, half-naked private, his knees drawn up to his chest in a final spasm. It was not clear whether this soldier’s uniform had been incomplete when he died, or if parts of it had subsequently been scavenged by his comrades. His grey face was partly submerged in the puddle, which was freezing over, the ice reaching inside his open mouth; his beard glittered with hundreds of frozen droplets. And his minié was under Styles’ arm, the stock resting on the ground beside him, the barrel leaning against his shoulder.
Kitson stifled his unease. ‘Styles? Are–are you all right, my friend?’ he asked gently.
The illustrator did not answer, or even look up from his work. Slowly, Kitson sat down next to him; he noticed without surprise that the drawing was a detailed depiction of the expired soldier. The pencil began to move more frantically, scoring the paper with thick black lines, defacing what was already there. Kitson reached over and stopped Styles’ bony hand, pressing it flat upon the page. The illustrator let out a groaning sigh and slumped forward as if cut down from the wall. They remained in silence for a moment. A tear patted softly against the drawing, followed by several more. Kitson put his arm around Styles’ shoulders. The joints beneath his thin coat were sharp and hard. There is nothing left of him, Kitson thought; I am now the heavier man.
Suddenly, Styles coughed, gagging as if he was about to be sick; and then the stream of words began. ‘I cannot stop thinking of it, Kitson, I cannot stop thinking about the cave. It will not let me be, I–I see it all day, then it haunts my bloody dreams as well. It will not let me be. I think of the rock in my hand, and–and that sound, and the way it felt, and dear God it will not let me be.’
The rasping panic in his voice made Kitson smart with guilt. The junior correspondent had left the Courier team two weeks after Inkerman, in the wake of the great storm that had sunk the H. M. S. Prince and so many of the other vessels moored in Balaclava harbour. In his desire to help the injured and to restore order to the decimated port, however, Kitson had entirely neglected a more immediate responsibility. It was true that they had disregarded him when he had first proposed that Styles be shipped back to England; the illustrator himself had stated quite unequivocally that he was fit for service and wished to remain in the Crimea. But he should not have been halted by that. He should have written to the boy’s father. He should have convinced someone in the army, or one of the surgeons he became acquainted with in Balaclava, to make some kind of intervention–Mr O’Farrell be damned. There was no excusing his failure to do any of this. It was not too late, though, to start making amends.
Kitson rose to his haunches, looking along the trench. ‘Where is Cracknell?’ he asked tersely. ‘Is he close by?’
It had long been his suspicion that the letter the senior correspondent had written to O’Farrell about Styles’ condition had been inflected to make the whole business seem like the womanish hysteria of his over-sensitive junior rather than anything warranting genuine concern. Kitson found that he now actively wanted to see Cracknell again–to confront him about Styles.
The illustrator made no reaction to his question. ‘The boots,’ he muttered morosely, ‘twitching like… like hen’s feet. And I can hear that sound. I can hear it right now, as I speak. Dear Christ, all these blessed bodies, Kitson, I don’t know how I can–how I will—’
Kitson looked at him. ‘Robert, listen to me. I am deeply sorry that I left you, and must ask your forgiveness. But do not despair, my friend. We will get you home, I promise. As soon as I can arrange it.’
Styles fell quiet, tucking his drawing-book away in his coat pocket; then, without warning, he stamped on the icy puddle at the base of the trench, sending a long crack running between the dead private’s blue lips. ‘No,’ he said with hard, miserable resolve, wiping his tears away with his sleeve. ‘No, I cannot leave. What is there in England for me? I have given up everything to come here, everything. Like you, Kitson. We are the same in this, are we not? Could you just go back?’
Kitson had tensed. ‘No, but—’
‘I must continue to work. I must see the truth of war. I must capture it, don’t you see? I cannot leave.’ Styles stamped on the puddle again. ‘And what would he say if I left? He would say I am a weakling–a coward. I am not, Kitson. I did what was necessary in that–in that cave.’ His hands began to shake, as if his anguish and his confusion were about to boil over once more; then he picked up the rifle that stood next to him and his fragile self-control was retained. ‘I–I have shown my courage since, also, out here. In ways that he has not. That he could not.’
Kitson took a breath, looking up at the moon. Cracknell, he realised, was nowhere near the advance parallel that night; Styles was there alone. There was something about the way the illustrator held the rifle that alarmed him. He could not help but think that it was done with an ease brought about by usage. Styles had wielded a minié before. Had he not just claimed to have proved himself not only in the cave, when he smashed a rock into the skull of a boy-soldier, but also here in the advance parallel? It could not be avoided: Robert Styles, student of the Royal Academy, supposed illustrator for the London Courier magazine, had been fighting, and in all likelihood killing, alongside the enlisted men.
He decided to concentrate upon a modest goal. ‘Robert, let us leave this trench, at least–go somewhere warm and find some supper. You must be—’
‘And yet he mocks me still, whenever I see him. That bastard mocks me. That awful, rotten bastard.’ With each word, he hit the ice at his feet with the butt of the minié. ‘He thinks he can still lord it over me because of his grubby affair with Mrs Boyce. But how could I care about that now? I do not care. I have shown my courage out here. That bastard–I’ve shown my courage.’
Styles’ speech degenerated into an embittered, vicious mumbling. He struck at the broken ice with greater force, a shard disturbing the stiffening neck of the dead soldier, making his head jerk hideously.
‘Come, Robert,’ said Kitson with a forceful joviality he most definitely did not feel, ‘let us go back to the camps and have a tot of brandy. Haven’t you had enough of this mud, my friend?’
A shot sounded nearby, disturbing the still night air like an anvil tipped into a millpond. Kitson and Styles both turned abruptly. It had been fire
d from somewhere on the advance parallel, towards the Russian lines. Two more followed a second afterwards.
‘Who’s firing?’ demanded an officer’s voice from the direction of the forward battery. ‘Stand to, damn it, and name yourselves!’
‘Hopkins, sir, and Reid, pit number three!’
‘I see no attack! What the deuce are you shooting at, man?’
‘It’s Trodd, sir!’ The soldier sounded amazed. ‘’E’s gone over to the bloomin’ Ruskis! Made a run for it!’
‘Fire at will!’ came the reply, louder now. ‘Get that man! There are no bloody deserters in the 7th Fusiliers! Get him!’
The appearance of British soldiers, standing in their trenches or on the ramparts of the forward battery in order to take aim at their errant comrade, provoked a sudden explosion of musketry from the Russian fort. Kitson, crouched down with his hands over his head, saw to his horror that Styles was actually getting to his feet, looking out over the edge of the trench, cocking his rifle and bringing it up to his shoulder. Then, without hesitation, he fired, the sound stunningly loud; and missed, evidently, as he immediately tore open a cartridge, and unfastened the minié’s packing rod, preparing to reload.
Instinctively, Kitson lunged over, pulling hard at the base of Styles’ coat, causing the gunpowder to spill from the cartridge, down into the mud. The illustrator tried to kick his attacker away, only to have Kitson grip tightly on to his right leg. They staggered to one side, splashing through the shattered slush of the puddle, straying into a shallower section of the trench. Now out in the full glare of the moonlight, they were a clear target for the marksmen over in the Russian fort. Several musket-balls struck around them as the two men continued to struggle desperately with one another; then one sliced through Styles’ thigh, twisting him to the ground.
Kitson took two steps back. Styles, teeth gritted, clutched at his leg. His fingers grew black with blood. ‘Stay calm, Robert!’ Kitson instructed firmly. ‘Try to stay calm.’ He walked forward, bending down to haul the injured illustrator to cover. A thought came to him, startlingly clear: that will get him evacuated.
The first musket-ball clipped Kitson’s side, whipping through his clothing and catching the base of his rib-cage. He fell forward, landing on his knees in the freezing water. His hands went to his wound; his body was soft and horribly ragged to the touch. There was no pain, nor could he tell which parts of what he felt were ripped fabric, and which were ripped flesh.
Another ball hit his back, cracking the shoulder-blade as it ricocheted away and shoving him to the bottom of the trench. The pain started to come now, intoxicatingly, dizzyingly intense, beyond any expression. Kitson found that he could no longer move, that his legs were gone, and his arms lay useless. His eyelids dipped down, then snapped back open, then dipped down again; above, the white moon shone on blankly. Styles was pulling himself, grimacing, into the shadow of the trench wall. There was more shooting, but the sounds grew distant, floating over faintly from a remote, nightmarish land.
3
So much for the grand adventure! To the four winds with the noble patriotic enterprise! After the missed opportunities of the Alma, the terrible butchery of Inkerman, and the myriad agonies of a disastrous winter, this correspondent can state with absolute truth that there are now not ten officers in any division who would not be delighted at the chance of getting away from the Crimea.
Lord Raglan must carry much of the blame for this state of affairs. He, and those wretched men who follow his example, carry themselves about as if the disintegration of their army was, in truth, an awful bore, and not worthy of their attention; much less as if it was the direct result of their incompetence. Our old friend Colonel Boyce is, of course, prominent amongst this number. They have their warm houses, and their servants, and do not like to go out in bad weather (although they have valises packed with greatcoats, fur hats and numerous other items of sturdy winter clothing); whilst their men stand out in the snow, all but abandoned by our wretched Commissariat, trying to sew their boots back together with lengths of their own hair.
The word in the camps, amongst both officers and the common soldiers, is that Lord Raglan seems to take it precious easy. He is not often seen amongst the men of the line–and during those rare outings, the privates regard him with confusion, not having a clue who he is, whilst the officers run away in order to avoid having to salute him. Such is the feeling in the British Army as 1855 begins its grim progress!
Cracknell took a swig of coffee and a long pull on his cigarette, flicking the ash over the side of the bed on to the floor; then he drew a line under the text, and beneath wrote ‘Forward camp of the Light Division, 23rd January 1855’. Yawning hugely, he reached under the covers to scratch his crotch. The very top of the tent was touched with sunlight. His pocket-watch read six o’clock: the day was beginning. He finished the cigarette and swung his legs out of the cot, lowering his feet into his boots, which stood open and waiting on the floor.
The tent was wickedly cold. Frost laced the stones of the ruined shed in which it was pitched. Among the many things claimed by the great storm of the previous November had been the Courier team’s comfortable little hut. The winds had brought it down in a matter of minutes, exposing them to a screaming tornado of flying camp detritus. After gathering what they could catch of their fast-vanishing belongings, they had embarked upon an urgent search for shelter. It had led them to this dilapidated, roofless structure; soaked and shivering, they had crouched down gratefully in its filthy corners.
Once the storm had abated, Cracknell had slung a foraged standard-issue army tent over it, making what he considered to be a rather homely little place, with a sturdy stone perimeter that would offer some measure of protection from any further extremes of weather. Also, the foundations of the shed enabled them the luxury of private berths in what had once been livestock pens, each with a canvas curtain set across its entrance. But had he received any kind of thanks from his so-called colleagues for his ingenious labours? Of course he bloody well hadn’t–and neither of the useless, ungrateful rascals had spent more than a handful of nights in it.
Cracknell walked from his bed-alcove into the central area of the tent, looking to the small charcoal stove on which he had brewed his coffee. It had gone out. He kicked the thing over with a violent exclamation, scattering soot across the earth floor. Wrapping his fur coat (a recent acquisition, not overly greasy) around him, and putting a wool cap upon his head, the senior correspondent searched about for something to eat. All he could find was a small piece of military-issue biscuit. In the middle of the tent was a crude writing desk fashioned from packing crates, its surface covered with his papers. Sitting at it, he nibbled on the rock-hard biscuit, took a soothing swallow of rum from his hip-flask, and surveyed the report he had just completed.
There were some fanciful sections, he had to admit; the occasional paragraph where a light patina of exaggeration, a laminose layer of drama, had been artfully applied. Throwing the biscuit into a corner and lighting another cigarette, he decided, as always, that this was unimportant. No names were involved, apart from those he sought to shame or disgrace. All kinds of people were talking, and saying all manner of things. And anyway, he thought with wry satisfaction, I have a reputation to encourage.
A couple of weeks earlier, O’Farrell had sent him a package from London. It had contained a long letter, the last few issues of the Courier, and a thick wad of cuttings from the rest of the British press. As Cracknell pored over them, he realised his reports from the front were proving somewhat incendiary–beyond anything he had previously heard about. The Courier’s circulation was soaring. Its offices were being deluged with letters of both the most expansive support and the severest censure. The impassioned debate inspired by the magazine’s Crimean coverage, Cracknell learned with immense gratification, had spread to the very highest level. As Lord Aberdeen’s government tottered before accusations of having mismanaged the war, radical members were quoting his
words in Parliament (along with those of that weasel Russell of the Times) as part of their case against the Prime Minister and his Cabinet.
And these words were his, and his alone. Kitson had left him–had absconded to Balaclava to wander amongst the injured. This had been a harsh blow. He had always felt that it had been a mistake to send an art correspondent to cover a war, but with his guidance the fellow had been doing surprisingly well, easily surpassing his most optimistic expectations. Thomas Kitson had an undeniably powerful turn of phrase, and had seemed committed to his journalistic duty. He could not stay the course, though; he had let himself become distracted, and his vision muddied by inappropriate compassion. Ability is nothing, the senior correspondent reflected, without a strong, disciplined mind.
Which brought one to Mr Styles. His drawings were an ongoing disaster, an unending, unvaried procession of mutilated horses and mouldering soldiers, all of which were quite unfit for publication. O’Farrell had been adamant that he stay, however, that he be properly supervised and made to produce something more becoming a professional magazine illustrator–to get some recompense, basically, from the Courier’s poor investment. Cracknell simply couldn’t be bothered to explain to him why this was a waste of time. He had more than enough of his own business to attend to. As far as he knew, Styles was still around the camps, entertaining himself in his customarily grisly fashion. Sooner or later, he reasoned, O’Farrell would give up and recall him.
Abandoned by his subordinates, Cracknell had thus stepped out from the shadow of the team to stand alone in the limelight. O’Farrell had been doubtful at first, but had soon warmed to this state of affairs and set about creating himself a celebrity. The Tory papers, Cracknell saw, had voiced an overweening hostility towards the reports of the Courier’s Crimean correspondent–a hostility which, as every true polemicist knew, could easily be turned to its target’s advantage. A month-old article from Blackwood’s had declared that this nameless personage flings his censure about wildly and without reason, stabbing left and right like a Malay under the influence of opium, or a Red Indian on the warpath, with his bloodied tomahawk ever at the ready; and O’Farrell, in his clumsy fashion, had pounced. The next issue of his magazine had carried Cracknell’s report on the front page, as usual, but instead of being anonymous, it was attributed to ‘the justly-stabbing Malay’; and the most recent piece was given to ‘the honest Red Indian’. Both monikers had made Cracknell wince with embarrassment.
The Street Philosopher Page 28
