The Street Philosopher

by Matthew Plampin

  To the relief of all, the wagon finally made it on to the plateau. The railway track curved in towards the huts and barns of Kadikioi, and then ran straight on to the forward camps. Seeing the many hundreds of white tents, spread across the blue-grey fields like points of light on a rippling lake, brought cheer to the Tomahawk’s heart. He was positively itching for action. Balaclava, although greatly recovered from its ghastly winter, remained somewhat dull for a man accustomed to the front line. The most thrilling it got was the occasional afternoon’s horse racing staged by the cavalry at the nearby village of Karani. Much to his disgust, he had managed to miss the assaults of the previous week due to a bout of diarrhoea brought on by some suspect seafood. A decisive victory had been won at the Quarries. The significance of the operation was ably attested to by the numbers of injured brought down to the quay. Watching this bleak procession from his window, Cracknell had vowed that when the next column was made, he would be there.

  The railway cart, by now a familiar sight, was largely ignored as it trundled by the endless tents and parading soldiers. A few blasts of artillery were heard–the rear batteries, Cracknell reckoned, grabbing the chance for a bit of early morning practice before the day’s labour got underway. He turned to where the plateau dipped down towards Sebastopol. From such a distance, the besieged port city and its fortifications looked like an ugly, disfiguring knot in the smooth grain of the landscape.

  Half an hour later, the wagon reached the final stretch of track. The driver slowed it as much as he could; then the navvies strode around, swiftly untethering the horses and leading them away whilst the cart was still in motion. Cracknell climbed down, staggering a little as he dropped to the ground. Behind him, the wagon hit the buffer at the track’s end with a loud clang. Men from the Quartermaster-General’s department were upon it immediately, distributing its cargo amongst their regimental counterparts. Cracknell spotted none other than the Quartermaster-General himself, directing the proceedings. A decidedly reptilian creature, responsible for much suffering in the Tomahawk’s book, he was also known to have an old family connection with Boyce. This man was the source, unwitting or otherwise, of whatever bait had been used to reel in Charles Norton–Cracknell was sure of it. And when this war had finally worn itself out, he had vowed that he would discover the details. He would use his prominence, his reputation, to expose them all.

  Cracknell made for the old Courier tent, intending to retrieve the field glass he had left locked in his sea-chest. He wasn’t entirely sure what he would find. Shortly before he’d left the plateau, this worthy structure had been subjected to several attacks from those angered by his reports. It had been partly collapsed, the canvas slashed with an officer’s sword; and he could smell that someone, several people in fact, had relieved themselves on the top of his desk. He had already decided to leave for Balaclava, but these incidents only increased his determination to do so. The animosity of these people would only grow more intense, after all; the Tomahawk of the Courier was not about to soften either his views or their expression. How the hell could he? Lord Aberdeen’s disastrous government had fallen, it was true, but who had replaced him? Yet another aged aristocrat, Lord Palmerston this time, a man over seventy years old with poor hearing, poor eyesight and a famously belligerent temper. Cracknell’s feeling about ‘Pam’, as he was known, had been bad from the start; and sure enough, the bullying villain had since shown that he was set on continuing the war until some manner of British victory was achieved, regardless of the cost. He wanted Sebastopol, in short, and was pressuring Raglan to deliver it. This was the reason the army was to be thrown at the Great Redan that morning. Cracknell knew in his bones that this rather literal tactic would lead only to calamity. All he could do, though, as ever, was observe what transpired and report it back to his readers.

  Approaching the tent, he was surprised to see clear signs of habitation. Was it soldiers–renegade Turks perhaps? Or Tartar peasants? The Tomahawk adopted a fearless, commanding expression, pushed open the flaps and strode inside.

  Robert Styles was sitting in the middle of the dirt floor, lit ghoulishly by the embers of a dying fire. A winding vine of smoke curled up and out through a ragged hole that had been sawn out of the tent’s roof. Cracknell’s writing desk had been pushed roughly to one side. Heaped upon it was a mass of drawings, some heavily worked up, others a mere handful of pencil strokes. They had been made on any available scraps of paper, over maps, newspapers and even pages of his own handwritten notes, left behind when he had gone to Balaclava. Their subject, of course, was the underbelly of the campaign: death, disease, emaciation and madness, rendered with horrible precision. Cracknell grimaced with distaste. They were like visions of the bloody Apocalypse.

  All the other furniture, the stools, stoves and sea-chests, had been crammed unceremoniously into what had once been bed alcoves. There was no useable bedding in sight. It was clear from Styles’ appearance that he was sleeping on the ground like a man of the line. He was dressed in a stained green jacket that must once have belonged to a private from the Rifle Brigade. A black forage cap lay by his side, and an old greatcoat was draped around his shoulders. Mud crusted his clothes, and one of his legs was dark with dried blood. His beard was unkempt, matted and colourless, and he was painfully thin, his sun-tanned skin stretched tight over his bones. He was drawing, his wasted hand darting across the paper.

  The senior correspondent stood in stunned silence. He remembered that he’d never quite got round to ascertaining that Styles had left the Crimea. His assumption had been that the illustrator was shipped out after being wounded that January–not unreasonable, he felt, considering that Madeleine and her friend had laid him out on the quay at Balaclava. That the boy had vanished soon afterwards was deeply unfortunate, but hardly uncommon. Cracknell had asked O’Farrell to pass on his condolences to the family.

  Kitson, on the other hand, he’d known about. Balaclava’s churning rumour-mill soon reported that his one-time junior was at work in Mrs Seacole’s British Hotel. This was a lamentable dereliction of duty–a desertion, in fact. It was also completely predictable. The art correspondent, unable to cope with the turmoil of battle, had removed himself to a safe distance, playing nurse to ease his guilty conscience. Contemptible, but there it was. This, though–this felt as if he’d arrived home from a lengthy trip abroad to discover that the forgotten fern in his window, which should have died quietly, had actually grown to a supernatural size, engulfing his entire house.

  ‘Mr Styles, what the devil are you doing here?’ Cracknell said abruptly, in a loud voice that held both humour and a note of confrontation.

  The illustrator stopped work and looked up at him. He did not speak, or offer any expression, either of welcome or dislike, at the return of the Tomahawk. But Cracknell fancied that he could see something stir in those sunken eyes. A touch unnerved, the correspondent decided to use a more openly amicable approach. He went down on his haunches, and threw the butt of the cigarette he’d been smoking on the fire. It was fuelled, he now saw, with the stocks of dismantled Russian muskets, some of which were patterned with elaborate carvings.

  ‘How’s the leg?’ he asked with gruff warmth, forcing himself to look at Styles. His complexion had the texture of old cloth, with earth rubbed into its very fibre; Cracknell caught a whiff of old clothes and decaying gums. ‘A bit better, I hope? Upon my life, you’re as sun-browned as a bloody blue-jacket! Quite some change, young sir; quite some change.’

  Styles did not reply. He went back to his sketch.

  Casting his mind back to his last days on the plateau, Cracknell recalled the occasional sense that someone was moving around just outside, hovering on the edge of the tent’s stone foundations. At the time, he had imagined it was some vengeful soldier trying to put the fear into him. Now he was beginning to think differently. ‘When did you move yourself in here?’

  Still Styles said nothing.

  Cracknell raised an eyebrow, and took a bundle of c
igarettes from his pocket. ‘Well, I have been lodging in Balaclava these past few months–on Courier business, y’understand.’

  The London Courier, in truth, had been a secondary reason for the Tomahawk’s relocation. Rather more prominent had been the issue of Madeleine Boyce and her husband. In the weeks after that memorable night in the Courier tent, they had grown rash, meeting in the Boyces’ farmhouse with greater regularity. There had been a series of abominably close shaves, Cracknell managing to leave literally a single second before the cuckold made his entrance. He was perfectly happy to beat a rapid retreat every once in a while–he found it stimulating, in fact. Such situations, however, had been getting a little too frequent for comfort. He had started to feel that Madeleine was deliberately courting them. There was a marked carelessness in her treatment of their arrangements. ‘Now, Maddy, you’re quite certain that Nathaniel is on duty for the entire morning?’ he might ask. ‘Oh yes,’ she would reply airily; and then they would be interrupted, often whilst in full flight, by the sound of a booted foot upon the stoop.

  She was becoming unbalanced. Her demands for declarations of his fidelity and unwavering passion grew yet more frequent and more desperate; and his responses, delivered as convincingly as ever, plainly no longer satisfied her. It was the awful tension of the siege, Cracknell had theorised. It was preying on her reason, leading her to desire, even to prompt, dramatic conclusions. But whatever the explanation, it was all growing somewhat perilous, for both of them. He had decided that it would be best if he removed himself from the camps, and from the Boyces, for an indefinite period of time. Madeleine had not taken this at all well, of course. Cracknell had managed to calm her only with elaborate plans of the escape they would make together when he returned for her later in the campaign. They would go to southern Spain, he promised, to the orange-groves of Andalusia. There would be a pretty, sun-kissed villa with a view of the ocean, many thousands of miles beyond the reach of Nathaniel Boyce; there would be children, a family, a future filled with love and happiness. Eventually, tearfully, she had agreed to let him go.

  Cracknell offered the bundle of cigarettes to Styles. Unexpectedly, the illustrator accepted, pulling out three of the crooked paper tubes. Two went in the pocket of his green jacket, the other in his mouth; he lit it, not sharing the match with Cracknell. ‘Have you been to Balaclava lately, Styles?’ There was no response. Cracknell lit his own cigarette. ‘You would find it much improved, my friend. Place is almost English in aspect, these days. Provisions of all sorts are in plentiful supply–including, quite unbelievably, winter clothing for the troops. Winter clothes, in June! They all say that they’re expecting their summer dress by Christmas. It would be amusing, would it not, if this idiocy had not consigned so many to their graves.’

  Styles stayed quiet. Cigarette dangling from his lips, he started applying shade to a form which, even viewing it upside down, Cracknell could tell was a cadaver of some kind.

  ‘The Turks are gone as well, thank Christ. There are a number of shops now, a restaurant, a telegraph office–which is very useful for us, as you might imagine. I even saw a bloody photographer last month, taking views of the harbour. Fenton’s his name–they say he’s been up in the camps as well. Some competition for you artists there, eh, Styles!’ The illustrator did not react. Cracknell took the cigarette from between his lips and moved closer to the fire, sitting himself on the floor. ‘And would you credit it,’ he went on slyly, ‘I’ve also discovered a few whores at work amongst the cottages. Doing a brisk trade, of course. Why, I had to make my appointments days–nay, weeks in advance!’

  This joking revelation had been intended to foster a bit of manly bonhomie between them, and perhaps elicit a knowing chuckle from his grimy companion–after all, he was a young man, was he not? The travails of the romping gent, in Cracknell’s judgement, were of universal amusement to the male of the species, and especially to its hot-blooded youth. In this, however, as in so much else, Robert Styles was a disappointment to his sex. He breathed out a great cloud of smoke, those eyes now glinting with an unmistakable malevolence. He seemed to be gathering up his energy. Cracknell realised that Styles was preparing himself to speak, something he clearly hadn’t done in some time.

  ‘Why are you back?’ he demanded, his voice a hoarse snarl.

  Cracknell, slightly thrown by the violence of this utterance, paused for a moment. He sucked on his cigarette. Well done, Mr Styles, he thought, I was very nearly worried for a moment there. Very nearly.

  ‘There is to be a great attack this morning,’ he replied, hardening his manner. ‘Did you not hear the early parades? They are to storm the Great Redan. It will be an advance over two hundred yards of open ground, straight at a solid wall of Russian cannon. The French are doing the same further down the line, against the equally redoubtable Malakhoff Tower. A lunatic plan, if you ask me, devised by desperate, unimaginative generals who are entirely out of ideas.’ Cracknell laughed mirthlessly as he studied the end of his cigarette. ‘But, Styles, strangely enough, they didn’t think to ask me.’

  Looking over at the strange figure before him, the senior correspondent suddenly decided that the best course of action was to re-assert their professional relationship–to knock the dust off the contract that gave him authority over the boy, and impose a much-needed sense of hierarchy on Styles’ disordered mind.

  ‘It is my duty to witness this piece of folly for the readers of the Courier,’ Cracknell stated firmly, pulling out his dented silver hip-flask. ‘And, I might add, yours also. Your bond to O’Farrell still holds, lad. I see that your muse has not deserted you. Let’s see if we can coax a publishable scene out of that obstinate pencil of yours, shall we? A view of the Redan from the forward trenches, perhaps?’ He pointed a stern, stubby finger in Styles’ expressionless face. ‘Just be certain to follow my lead, d’ye hear? And keep a tight hold of your nerve–you’ll sure as hell have need of it.’

  The illustrator stopped drawing, threw his half-smoked cigarette aside and got up. Carelessly, he added his latest piece of work to the drift of papers atop the desk.

  Cracknell gave the flask a shake; it was empty. With mild irritation, he realised that he had forgotten to fill it before leaving Balaclava. He set it down by the fire and consulted a scratched brass watch. ‘I have someone to see before heading for the front–an old pal from the 57th who says he has information for me. I suggest we meet before the Quarries in, say, half an hour.’ He hesitated, and then said with heavy emphasis, ‘Can you manage that?’

  Styles gave the very slightest of nods. His aggression had left him as quickly as it had appeared. Beneath the dirt, Cracknell fancied, the illustrator now had an almost juvenile aspect; he began gathering up his equipment with schoolboy haste. This was going rather well, despite all their past differences. The Tomahawk was finding that the notion of having a subordinate at his side once again was oddly appealing.

  Cracknell flicked some ash from his cigarette and then took another pull. ‘You realise, I take it, that Kitson has gone. He has abandoned to Courier, abandoned us, to work over at that glorified pot-house on the Balaclava road.’

  Styles, rummaging through a heap of tarnished military equipment piled in the tent’s far corner, did not answer. Kitson’s fate was clearly of little interest to him.

  The senior correspondent rose to his feet with a groan. ‘This hardly matters, of course. We two are the Courier team now, Mr Styles. You and I, valorous and unstoppable!’ He almost reached out to grip Styles’ bony shoulder, but thought better of it. He glanced down at his companion’s bloodied trouser leg. ‘You are fit for this, aren’t you?’

  Styles straightened up and moved out of the corner towards the tent flaps. Cracknell started when he saw the pistol; a second later, he recognised it as his own neglected revolver. The illustrator must have broken into his sea-chest and found it there. He’d quite forgotten that he owned the damned thing. The gun, liberally smeared with black grease, seemed enormous in Styl
es’ bony hand. He span the chamber with apparent expertise, wiped the pistol on the arm of his jacket and then pushed it into his belt.

  For an instant, Cracknell found himself looking straight into the boy’s yellowed eye. It brimmed with bitter contempt.

  ‘I will be at the Quarries,’ Styles muttered as he left the tent.

  4

  Boyce held the worn, much-handled sheet of paper between finger and thumb, turning it over slowly in the candlelight. Nunn’s nervous, simple face stared back at him from the other side of the tent. Twisting the left point of his moustache, Boyce made himself study the drawing on the sheet a second time. The Colonel knew his art. He had learned it at his father’s side, in the family picture gallery, and had toured Italy as a young man in order to see for himself the very best that mankind had produced. Such knowledge, he had been raised to believe, was among the qualifications of a gentleman. He could tell, as he examined the lines and shading, that this image was too realistic, too painstaking in its observation of incidental details to be a production of prurient fantasy. It had to be admitted also that it was the work of a man of true talent. The likenesses were quite remarkable.

  Boyce found that he was immensely tired. The vitalising excitement that had filled him only a few minutes earlier, as he stood watching the columns of the 99th start for the Quarries, had drained away completely. Sitting there in the shabby tent, he had to stifle a yawn. He was far too fatigued for anger. His mind was dull, indifferent, empty. He rubbed his itching eyes with a leather-gloved knuckle.