The Street Philosopher

by Matthew Plampin

  With a start, Cregg realised that there was someone close to where he sat, out on the slope. His first thought was that it might be a Russian scout, creeping around as they sometimes did, looking for an officer to take a pot-shot at. But no–this was a civvie, clad in a long, tattered coat and a black cap. He was hunched over some paper, taking frequent looks down at the hospital tents in the Middle Ravine. He’s drawing them, Cregg thought. Rumours had been going around the camps for some time about an artist who lived in a cave on the French side of the ravine. They said he was soft in the head, and that the Frogs treated him like a pet, giving him food and firewood. Cregg was sceptical; there were many hundreds of bored men up on the plateau, talking all manner of nonsense. Seeing this chap now, though, brought back a distant memory of Inkerman Ridge–of hunting for a wandering artist with Major Maynard.

  From somewhere in front of the Quarries, several muskets were discharged, and British voices shouted in alarm. Abruptly, the artist stopped what he was doing and rose unsteadily to his feet, picking up a folder and limping off in the direction of these shots. After only a few yards, he stumbled on the uneven ground, causing a sheaf of papers to slip out the back of his folder. He didn’t notice; Cregg called out to him, but he was moving too fast, lost in a mad hurry to get to the site of the shooting. A moment later, he’d vanished around the edge of the slope.

  ‘Rum cove,’ Cregg murmured, dragging on his pipe, his eyes wandering back to the spilled sheets of paper. Impulsively, staying as low as he could, he edged over to where they lay. Seeing that they were sketches, he scooped them up and retreated to his ledge. Most were horrible–bodies, skulls and suchlike. Cregg leafed through them quickly, his face wrinkled with uncomprehending distaste. Then he arrived at the saucy stuff.

  The soldier was staggered by his sheer good fortune. On these pages were none other than fat Mr Tomahawk and pretty Mrs Colonel, fucking like wild beasts, rendered so lifelike they could almost have been panting away in front of him. He blinked in astonishment, hardly able to believe it.

  Ever since Inkerman, he’d been alert for opportunities to get Boyce, to get him good and proper for what he’d done. But he quickly realised that unless he was prepared to die himself, the Colonel was beyond his reach–and now that it came to it, Cregg was not entirely sure that he was quite ready to give up his life for the sake of revenge. So he’d been confined to glowering from the line as Boyce paced imperiously before them, imagining a bayonet stabbing into that rotten carcass, or a bullet cracking open that horrible head, but remaining powerless to strike against the bastard who had killed Major Maynard–who had the blood of so many of his pals all over his stinking toff hands.

  Now, though, things were different. These pictures, with their mix of quim and scandal, would draw men from throughout the camps. Boyce would become the butt of a wicked joke that Dan Cregg would spread through the whole bloody army. This wasn’t quite the satisfaction that he desired; but it would do very nicely for the time being.

  An enraged bellow came from the fortifications behind him. ‘Cregg, you blasted cur, where the devil are you?’

  It was his sergeant. He’d been nabbed once again, and would certainly be flogged for shirking his duties. Yet even this could not put a dent in his good spirits. Wearing a tight, malicious grin, he tucked the drawings safely inside his tunic and went back into the battery.

  2

  As usual, the atmosphere in the British Hotel was thick with tobacco smoke and the masculine hum of military conversation. Merriment and laughter, however, so often found in the hotel, were in short supply that night. Every soldier gathered there had the subdued, anxious manner that always prevailed in the ranks on the eve of a great attack. They clustered around the fireplace, sat at tables and perched upon the barrels and crates that stood about, nervously discussing what few details were known. The majority had just been retired from the forward positions, and would not be fighting that day; but every one of them had friends, cousins or brothers in the assaulting divisions.

  Slowly, Kitson knelt by one of the crude wooden columns that stood along the length of the hotel’s main saloon, and wrung out a bloody flannel into a basin of water. In the past few hours, he had treated a long procession of cuts, sprains and dislocations, the results of soldiers being knocked down by exploding shells, or clipped by shrapnel. Such injuries, he had learned, indicated that the early stages of a major action were underway, with the heavy guns exchanging fire as a prelude to a large-scale infantry engagement. On this occasion, it had seemed that the initiative belonged to the Allies. The previous afternoon, they had bombarded Sebastopol with an unprecedented ferocity. Veils of fine grey dust had been shaken from the hotel’s rafters. Nothing, Kitson had thought, could possibly survive such a concerted barrage. Sebastopol and everyone in it had surely been flattened.

  Yet much of the talk he was hearing that night cast doubt upon this estimation. A party clad in the dark blue jackets and overalls of the Artillery Division were seated around one of the hotel’s largest tables, swigging hot port from tin mugs and devouring generous slabs of Mrs Seacole’s seed-cake. They had been working the thirteen-pound mortars throughout the bombardment, and had been so deafened by this task that they were virtually shouting at one another in their efforts to communicate. From their bellowed exchanges, Kitson and numerous others discovered that the order to cease firing had come too soon; that the mortars were not doing the damage expected of them; and that, most importantly of all, the advance of the infantry had been delayed for so long that any advantage the bombardment might have gained them was already lost.

  ‘They’ll have rebuilt the bloody walls!’ yelled one despondently, a greasy hand cupped over his ear in a futile attempt to amplify his comrades’ responses. ‘Only earthworks, ain’t they? He works damn fast, does the Russian! Damn fast!’

  It took the emergence of the matron of the British Hotel, the benevolent ruler of this peaceful, cosy realm, through a door behind the long counter to lift the gloom that afflicted her clientele that night. Mrs Seacole was dressed for riding, a long cape covering her striped dress, and a capacious saddle-bag bursting with provisions slung over her shoulder. Upon her head was a wide-brimmed hat that sported a huge blue feather. Kitson realised that she was intending to embark on one of her mercy missions up to the plateau. Since they had left the Medora, she had undertaken these trips with greater frequency. She often proclaimed that she would not languish in the comfort of the hotel whilst the soldiers, her dear, brave sons, lay injured and needy at the front. Kitson, wary of whom he might encounter, had thus far declined to accompany her.

  This stout, middle-aged mulatto lady was greeted with almost reverential warmth by the men assembled in the main saloon. They raised their cups, letting out weary cheers and banging fists on tabletops; a number called out ‘Good evening to you, Mother Seacole’ with earnest courtesy. She beamed back at them, returning their hearty salutations, her teeth shining white against a complexion the colour of strong tea. With every eye upon her, she walked around the counter’s end, heading over to a table of regulars. In seconds they were all laughing uproariously, whilst the rest of the hotel’s occupants looked on with envy. Kitson watched as she patted the cheek of one of her younger patrons, making a tender remark that made him blush scarlet and his comrades heave with fresh amusement.

  This was her way, and it was effective indeed. The ease with which she mixed with the fighting men, and the great and honest affection she showed them, brought them true respite from their burdens. Kitson’s admiration for her, for her open-hearted humanity, knew no limit. Her approach to the treatment of the wounded was expert, and very different from the clinical barbarity of so many of the male, Anglo-Saxon surgeons he had worked with at Balaclava harbour. This place, the British Hotel, was another source of wonderment. Mrs Seacole had summoned the building out of nowhere whilst Kitson still lay crippled in a hammock aboard the Medora. It had an improvised quality, the beams little more than stripped tree t
runks, the counter fashioned from a portion of a ship’s hull, still with barnacles attached; but these disparate, unlikely parts, seemingly knitted together by the sheer force of Mrs Seacole’s will, formed a haven for those trapped in the Crimea.

  Although she had taught him much during their time together, Kitson did not delude himself. He did not possess Mrs Seacole’s unparalleled ability to soothe her patients’ minds as well as their bodily afflictions, and would always remain her strange, nameless assistant. But he had thought of another way to repay the vast debt he owed her. Upon their return to England at the conclusion of the war, he had resolved to pen a grand account of this lady’s Crimean endeavours, detailing her achievements and thus sealing her fame. Public appetite for a tale of such genuine heroism would surely be huge. Mary Seacole would become a celebrated, emulated person, known to all, loved by all–as she so richly deserved to be.

  The main door creaked open behind Kitson, pulling him from these pleasant reflections. He turned, expecting another exhausted soldier to stagger in. Instead, he saw Miss Annabel Wade. She looked thinner, and was in a state of some anxiety, quickly taking in the smoky room. Kitson knew at once that he was the object of her search, but found that he was distinctly reluctant to approach her. He stood, his basin in his hands, waiting to be discovered.

  Locating him, Miss Wade hurried to his side with evident relief. ‘Mr Kitson, thank the Lord. I had heard that you were a part of this … concern.’ She cast an uncertain glance around the hotel. ‘I only pray that I am not too late. Sir, you must come back to the camps with me, right away.’

  Kitson felt as if he had been caught–apprehended. He had assumed that no one who knew him from before his injury was aware that he was at the British Hotel. It was most disturbing to discover otherwise. He set down the basin.

  Miss Wade drew a breath. ‘It is Mr Styles. He is in the Crimea still.’

  Kitson’s mind went blank; his limbs were tingling, bursting with an energy so intense and powerful it somehow prohibited any movement. He managed to shake his head. ‘Impossible.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He has been seen.’

  ‘He was wounded, though, shortly before I was.’ Kitson crossed his arms, trying hard to gather his recollections. ‘Miss Wade, I was told that you accompanied us both down to Balaclava harbour that morning, and that we were due to be transported out on the Charity. I checked the patient logs as soon as I was able. There were a number of unnamed civilians aboard her when she sailed. Was not Styles among them?’

  Miss Wade said that he was not, and recounted how, after staying out of sight for many weeks, the illustrator had recently started to appear again, his garb and bearing even more desperate than previously, wandering around the margins of the camp like a vengeful apparition. Some reports had placed him close to the Boyces’ farmhouse, she said, and she feared for Mrs Boyce’s safety, given Mr Styles’ persistent, unnatural attachment to that young lady.

  ‘He is known to come out during the larger actions. Some saw him during the taking of the Quarries.’ Miss Wade shivered. ‘They say he is armed.’

  Kitson frowned, his shock turning to anger. ‘I will not attempt to deceive you, Miss Wade. If Robert Styles’ mind remains as clouded as it was a few months ago, then he is dangerous indeed.’

  ‘But you are his one friend here, Mr Kitson, are you not? At the time of your injury, I gained the distinct impression that you had been attempting to restrain Mr Styles in his violent excesses. Can you not try to do the same now?’

  Kitson did not answer. ‘What of Cracknell?’

  Miss Wade snorted sarcastically. ‘Come, Mr Kitson, you know that gentleman far better than I. He vanished from the camps long ago. Those scabrous reports of his were beginning to make things difficult for him, I think–as were his wicked interferences in the Boyce household. No, he has been absent from all our lives for quite some time, thanks be to God.’

  Before Kitson could say any more, a loud laugh close to his elbow told him that Mrs Seacole was approaching. A moment later she was with them, looking Miss Wade over with keen, friendly curiosity.

  ‘And who is this upstanding lady, Thomas?’ Her voice was deep and smooth, with a lilting Caribbean cadence.

  Kitson made the introduction, briefly explaining the nature of Miss Wade’s work.

  Mrs Seacole nodded cannily. ‘Yes, I have seen you round about, Miss Wade, doing good things up on the plateau, with the prettiest young creature by your side. Holding the men transfixed, she was!’

  Miss Wade, although clearly on her guard, could not help but smile at this comment. ‘My companion, Mrs Madeleine Boyce.’

  ‘A fine beauty indeed, that one.’ Mrs Seacole gave a contented sigh. ‘Well, this is an honour for us, isn’t it, Thomas? We don’t often get ladies in the British Hotel, and certainly not those from the proud Caledonian tribes. I am of Scottish ancestry myself, Miss Wade. Now, can I get you some refreshment, my dear? A pot of half-and-half, perhaps? Or a tot of shrub?’

  Miss Wade was regarding her host doubtfully. ‘Thank you, Mrs Seacole, but I—’

  ‘How about a marrow pudding, then? Fresh up from the harbour this very afternoon! Are the marrow puddings not good, Toby?’ she asked a nearby corporal with crumbs in his beard.

  ‘Prime, Mother, prime,’ he replied appreciatively. ‘You’re a rare treasure, truly ye are.’ Miss Wade, however, could not be tempted.

  Kitson, silent throughout this exchange, accepted his fate. He saw that he must do what his visitor asked of him. ‘Mrs Seacole,’ he broke in, ‘I believe that I shall accompany you to the plateau this morning.’

  Mrs Seacole gave every sign of being pleasantly surprised by this decision; a moment later, though, she was asking him concernedly whether his poor chest was up to it. Turning to Miss Wade, she told the tale of how she had removed Thomas Kitson, the wounded orderly, from the quay at Balaclava and taken him to her base of operations aboard the Medora. There, she had nursed him back to health; and when she had taken up proprietorship of the British Hotel three months later, her orderly had chosen to go with her.

  ‘And now, having barely left this building in six long weeks, you wish to come up to the line,’ she pronounced heavily, her eyes on Kitson’s chest. ‘You must promise me that you will be careful, Thomas. That is still a grave wound indeed–you must let Nature do her work. We simply cannot have some passing excitement undoing all the progress that has been made.’

  ‘Certainly not, Mrs Seacole. I understand completely.’ Although the bleeding had stopped and he could move around normally with little discomfort, Kitson was all too aware of his continued fragility. He was coming to realise that his ribs would never regain the strength they had before that night in the advance parallel.

  ‘I’m sure that young Master Cowan can hold the fort in our absence, wherever he’s got to. I suppose it is only right, Thomas, that you wish to help those most in need of it. He is quite adept, Miss Wade, with a mustard poultice and a length of lint!’ She adjusted her riding cape. ‘But there is another reason for this sudden change of heart, Thomas, is there not. Don’t deny it, my love, I can tell.’

  Miss Wade was plainly impatient to be off, thinking only of getting back to the camps, back to Madeleine Boyce. Her fears regarding Styles were very real.

  ‘An old obligation, Mrs Seacole,’ Kitson said. ‘To a friend. It should not take long.’ He had no idea if this were true. Who could say what might await him back at the camps?

  ‘Someone you wish to save from destruction, I take it.’ Mrs Seacole’s jollity left her. Devoid of her usual happy animation, she seemed to age before him, the lines on her round face deepening in the soft oil-light of the hotel. ‘Very well, Thomas. I have been talking to my sons this past day. They firmly believe that the Russians will be ready for them when the dawn attack is sounded. I fear that we are on the brink of a great disaster, my dears; one that we are quite powerless to prevent. The coming day will be a truly terrible one for all.’

 
But then, quite suddenly, she recovered her habitual cheer, bidding the room an expansive farewell, telling the soldiers to take their ease and stay as long as they wished. In return, she received a robust chorus of good wishes, as well as stern instructions to keep herself safe, and leave getting shot at by the Ivans to those who were paid to put up with it. Adjusting her plumed hat and her saddle-bag, she opened the hotel’s door and strode out into the darkness, towards where the horses were tethered. Miss Wade was less than a step behind. Kitson pulled his jacket from the back of a chair and followed, closing the door after him.

  3

  The railway wagon reached the steepest part of the ascent to the camps. As the team of horses pulling it began to strain, the navvies walking beside the tracks started up a chant. They kept time with steady monotony, their low intonations punctuated by the crack of the driver’s whip. Cracknell, perched atop a pile of ammunition crates in the back of this crude, heavy cart, told himself to be patient: even without an engine, this was still the fastest route to the front. He listened to the creaking of the rope harnesses, and hoped that the fellow manning the brake had his wits about him, lest something gave way and they found themselves rolling back down towards Balaclava.

  Behind the wagon, several dozen sailors were trudging across the sleepers, kept uncharacteristically quiet by the prospect of the morning ahead. These blue-jackets were to serve as storming parties, supporting the great mass of infantry; the scaling ladders they would carry into the assault hung from the wagon’s sides. Every man there had been assigned this duty after losing a lottery aboard his vessel, and one could tell this from just a single glance at their grim faces. Shooting down ladder-bearers was the obvious way to hinder an attack on a fortified position–as the Russians would surely be aware.

  The skeletal remains of innumerable broken vehicles and cargo containers were heaped along the sides of the road, dimly visible in the gathering dawn. Lights from the supply base at Kadikioi shone up ahead, catching from time to time on the eyes of feral dogs watching their progress from the cover of the surrounding meadows. The scent of wild flowers drifted over the wagon, carried on a breeze that brushed gently through the long grass. On the left, rising up to a sharp, dark line against the softening sky, was the Black Sea.