‘There are more?’ he asked eventually.
By way of reply, Nunn passed over four or five other sheets, all in a similar condition to the first. The sketches upon them were of the same subject, broadly speaking, and were equally graphic in their treatment; but they showed later moments in the act, different arrangements and practices. Boyce winced to look upon them, knowing that these were scenes with which he was now burdened for the remainder of his days.
‘And you found them upon whom, exactly?’
‘Private Cregg, Colonel. From Third Company.’
‘Cregg… the name’s familiar. Is he regularly punished?’
‘Yes, Colonel. I believe we have flogged him eight times now, over the course of the campaign.’
Sighing heavily, Boyce dropped the sketches into a loose pile. As he rose from his chair, flexing his stiff knee-high boots, he caught sight of himself in a looking glass propped up in a dark corner of the tent. It was not a pleasing prospect. He was dressed in the current uniform decreed for officers on trench duty, which he considered to be quite absurd. Over a plain shell jacket, he was obliged to wear a ridiculous short tweed coat, lined with cheap, moth-eaten fur, and on his head he sported one of those abominably seedy forage caps. The moustache did manage, as ever, to lend him some gravity; but still, over all, he felt he had the appearance of First Ruffian in some strolling players’ sensational tragedy. He turned away sharply.
Boyce had meant to take action a good deal earlier. Some months back, he’d almost caught them together–he’d been certain of it. The gossip-mongers, catching wind of this incident, had grown busy once again. The Colonel had felt their mocking eyes upon him, and heard their wicked tongues clacking in his wake. The weight of provocation quickly became unbearable. He had resolved to give that fiend from the Courier a good horse-whipping, to demonstrate to the blackguard that he was up against a man of honour, who would go to some lengths to preserve it. But the cunning fat fox he hunted had somehow got scent of the hounds, and fled to some burrow or other; and, sensing traps, had also begun to keep well away from the henhouse. Before long, it was clear that the affair had cooled. Madeleine became yet more uncommunicative, if that were possible, retreating to her room as soon as she returned from her morning expeditions with Miss Wade.
The Colonel’s occasional efforts to wring information out of her yielded nothing. Her spirit had been sapped utterly. She cared not how hard she was struck, and endured whatever brutal attentions he felt inclined to force upon her without protest–indeed, without any visible response. At times, when they convened in his farmhouse, the officers of the 99th could hear her sobs through the walls. The pressures of the campaign, Boyce told them; the sights of war are bound to take an inevitable toll on the female mind.
He had been satisfied, in the short term at least. She was suffering, that much was plain–which was all well and good as far as he was concerned. Let it be some small castigation, he’d thought harshly, for the filth she has flung against my name. And when this is all over, when we have won this damned war and returned to England, some changes will be made, changes that young Madeleine will not find to her liking.
Yet now, many weeks later, this had been brought before him, as if from nowhere. It was taking some time for the full consequences to impress themselves upon Boyce’s weary mind. Weathering rumour and his own suspicions was one thing. But this–sketches taken from the hands of a private soldier, after they had been seen by God only knows how many others–was quite another. He looked down at the image on the top of the pile. Madeleine was straddling her lover with her back to the artist. The Irishman’s scrotum could be seen, dark and shrivelled beneath the smooth white curves of her buttocks, nestled between his thick, hairy thighs. Both, Boyce noticed, were wearing boots, and the discarded clothing around them seemed appropriate for the depths of winter. These drawings were some months old.
‘And he was showing these around? To other private soldiers?’
Nunn swallowed hard. ‘He was, Colonel.’
‘Were there officers present?’
Nunn hesitated, blinking, opening his mouth to speak and then shutting it again.
‘Mr Nunn,’ said Boyce, now with menace in his voice, ‘answer me, damn you. Were there men of rank present?’
Nunn stood as if at attention, his square chin in the air. ‘Yes, Colonel.’
Boyce lowered his head. ‘What division?’
‘The Light, sir. And the Fourth, if I’m not mistaken–the 18th Regiment of Foot.’
Boyce fell silent for a long time. It was over. They would all talk, of course they would. His disgrace, his dishonour would spread through the army faster than the blasted cholera. No high post for him; no, his career was effectively finished. No one would be able even to look him in the eye without having to suppress a laugh. Such was the fate of the betrayed husband, the cuckold–he became a laughing stock for all.
‘This is a brave thing you have done here, Mr Nunn,’ he said at last, ‘bringing these to me. You are a brave man.’
‘Thank you, Colonel.’
‘You are wasted as an adjutant, I see that now. A soldier of your mettle belongs on the open field, leading the troops, not fretting over the safety of his superiors.’
‘My only wish is to serve the Queen, Colonel, in whatever post is deemed right for me. It is an honour—’
‘Of course, of course.’ Boyce cleared his throat. ‘I’ve decided to relieve you of your responsibility to me, Mr Nunn, and reassign you to the first line. You will go from here and take your rightful place in the Forlorn Hope.’
Nunn blinked again. This, as Boyce knew well, was the stuff of his youthful dreams. Tales of the Forlorn Hope–those noble, heroic souls responsible for the triumphant sieges of the Peninsular War–were in large part responsible for the boy’s early decision to embark upon a life of soldiering. ‘Sir, I—’
‘Think of it, man!’ Boyce boomed over him. The moustache quivered slightly, as if electrified. ‘This is the final obstacle before us. This fort is Russia itself. When it crumbles, the Bear will crumble soon after. We must be bold, and advance. And I’m permitting you to be at the front of that advance–to win a victory to rival that achieved by the Iron Duke at the fortresses of Badajoz, or Ciudad, or San Sebastian. The frontal assault, Mr Nunn, as a part of the Forlorn Hope! There is nothing more gallant, nothing in all of soldiering. Were it not for the responsibilities of command I would be there alongside you. I envy you, sir. I envy you this great chance for glory.’
The Lieutenant, poor fool, was almost choked with pride. ‘Colonel, I can only hope that I prove worthy of the faith you have placed in me.’
Boyce nodded. ‘Go forward, then, into the trenches, and report to Colonel Yea of the 34th. Know that the 99th will be directly behind you. Good luck, Mr Nunn. We will shake hands atop the Redan.’
Nunn saluted and turned on his heel, making to leave. ‘One more thing,’ Boyce added, stopping the Lieutenant in his tracks. ‘This man Cregg. A thoroughgoing rapscallion?’
Nunn pulled himself back to attention, and nodded. ‘Of the very lowest kind, Colonel, despite his long service.’
Boyce picked up the drawings, rolling them into a tight tube. ‘Would such a man, in your opinion, benefit from the same opportunity I have given to you?’
‘From a place in the Forlorn Hope? It would certainly do him no harm, Colonel,’ replied Nunn guilelessly.
‘See to it. That will be all, Mr Nunn.’
A quarter of an hour later, Boyce emerged from the tent, the sketches safely inside his shell jacket. Lieutenant-Colonel Fairlie and Major Pierce were sitting nearby, dressed for battle. Fairlie was puffing idly on a cherry-wood pipe, leaning back on his fold-down chair with his highly polished boots up on the low crate that rested between them. He was studying a map of the Russian fortifications by the light of a small oil lamp, his neat grey beard and furrowed brow giving him a donnish air. There was no outward sign of nerves about him, but then Joseph
Fairlie was famously cool-headed. This made him an effective officer, whose undeniable achievements during the taking of the Quarries had obliged Boyce to elevate him to his present rank. The loutish Pierce was more obviously apprehensive. He was hunched forward in his seat, his blond, straw-like hair poking out from beneath his cap, forcing himself to read a newspaper. The thin, tightly printed pages shivered slightly in his grasp. Both men stood as he approached.
‘Where was young Nunn off to, sir?’ asked Pierce. ‘Seemed in a dreadful hurry.’
‘He came to me asking to join the Forlorn Hope,’ Boyce replied. ‘I saw no reason not to grant him this request.’
‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Fairlie, clearly impressed, ‘rather him than me.’
Boyce looked down at Pierce’s paper. It was the London Courier. After a report in February had included a particularly scathing–and widely-read–description of a freezing, half-starved sentry of the 99th standing guard outside a farmhouse whilst his officers feasted and laughed within, he had prohibited his officers from so much as picking up a copy of the despicable publication.
Pierce followed his gaze. ‘Apologies, Colonel,’ he said, diffident and a little shamefaced. ‘Just trying to keep up with the snake–see which way he slithers and all that.’
‘And?’
The Major cleared his throat. ‘Oh, he’s all incensed about some trip up the coast that was mounted a few weeks ago,’ he replied. ‘A joint force was assembled to take a Russian supply port–place called Kerch. The Turks destroyed a museum, apparently, and went on a bit of a rampage, abusing the locals and so forth. French had to shoot a few of ’em before they’d desist.’
Fairlie tamped down his pipe-bowl with his thumb. ‘Hardly surprising.’
Boyce snatched the copy of the Courier from Pierce’s hands and quickly located the column headed ‘Crimean Dispatches from the Famous Tomahawk of the Courier’. His eyes flitted over the account of the action at the supply port–heavily biased drivel, as usual–slowing only as they reached the closing paragraphs.
So the operation at Kerch was a success, but one has to ask how it could have been otherwise. It was an unopposed landing–yet even so innocent people died needlessly due to the callous oversight of those in command. There was failure, then, even in victory; but this correspondent finds himself saddened by the inescapable reflection that our forces have failed in almost everything they have attempted. The explanation for this lies in their leaders, who have been appointed with no reference to merit, and been allowed to remain in their posts even after horrific displays of ineptitude.
Our commander-in-chief missed the opportunity of taking Sebastopol when it lay virtually undefended; and, like so many of his officers, he sat complacently in a nice warm farmhouse whilst a savage winter devoured his army. But he is the son of a lord, and is well connected on both sides of the Commons, so he remains in his post. Our Quartermaster-General, to select another, has good interest at the Horse Guards, and several noble friends besides, and so receives and retains an appointment for which no one believes him qualified. There are countless other examples in the Cavalry, the Infantry, the Transport Service; one simply has to choose a department and corruption’s taint can be found.
One thing, however, must be understood: all abuses of privilege out here in the Crimea are but fruit of a rotten tree. Back in England, a man is made war minister because he is a duke; another becomes a war secretary because he is that duke’s cousin. Our government and army are parcelled out as if they were aristocratic estates–rather than great public trusts to be employed for the benefit of the people.
The Colonel could read no more. He screwed up the paper and cast it to the ground. Even though it did not specifically address him, Boyce could see the oblique references plainly enough–the warm farmhouse, the charge of corruption against the Quartermaster-General. ‘Fruit of a rotten tree indeed,’ he spat. ‘Damn that fellow!’
Pierce nodded. ‘Treasonous dog should be hanged, posthaste. I’ve been saying so for months.’
Fairlie puffed on his pipe, a contemplative look on his face. ‘Is there not truth to some of it, though? What he says about that old rascal Pam, for instance?’
Boyce glared at him. ‘There most certainly is not, Lieutenant-Colonel! Lord Palmerston deserves the support of every patriotic Englishman. This … this filth should be countered. It should be bloody well stopped. The blackguard has gone too far.’
‘Quite,’ Pierce agreed loyally. ‘Someone should publish the details of how he conducts himself. See how his precious reputation looks then.’
The determination to act was setting hard in Boyce’s mind. ‘Does anyone know where he is?’
His officers glanced at each other. ‘Balaclava’s our best guess,’ said Pierce. ‘He didn’t show at the Quarries for some reason, but today’s action might draw him out.’
Boyce looked around at the hundreds hurrying through the camp of the Light Division to their appointed posts. He straightened his jacket; the sketches rustled slightly against his chest.
‘Go to the men,’ he ordered. ‘I will join you shortly. There is something that requires my attention.’
5
Madeleine could not sleep. Pulling her sheets around her, she had moved to the chair by the window, and was watching the columns of soldiers trudging along the murky road outside the farmhouse. This movement of troops had been going on for some time now; she knew that the Guardsmen that were then filing past were part of the reserve force. Those unfortunate enough to be at the front of the attack would already be in place. She prayed ardently that the sun would stay down, that the day would not arrive, that the great assault would not begin, that hundreds of those men who had marched past her window would not soon be sent out to meet horrible deaths. But the light of the coming morning could just be made out, colouring the clear sky along the very edge of the horizon.
Annabel would be at the door of the Boyces’ farmhouse at five o’clock, ready to head towards the battlefield. Madeleine was dreading the purposeful knocks that would summon her forth to the hospital tents of the Middle Ravine. Since the supply lines had improved, and the provision of food and clothing to the soldiers had ceased to be such a serious issue, her indefatigable companion had decided that it was best that they redirect their energies towards providing medical assistance. Madeleine had grown accustomed to dishing out soup, or woollen hats, or cheese; but she was certainly not accustomed to nursing writhing, sweating, bleeding men, some torn open or missing limbs, who forced out their last words in terrifying, frenzied barks, and grabbed at her with all their strength. It was too much for her to bear. She often had to excuse herself and return to her bed. Weeping between the cold sheets, she would imagine Richard being brought to her in the Ravine, his innards unwinding bloodily into her arms, and there being nothing that she could do to save him.
It was the uncertainty that particularly tormented her. The weeks since he had departed were slowly mounting up into months. No word was sent as to his new location. Desolation crept into Madeleine; a dark part of her began to believe that he would never return, that she was stranded with no hope of release. Her last sight of him had been from this very window. It had been early morning. Nathaniel, returning from the trenches, had just slammed the front door behind him. Richard had been racing from the farmyard, as he had done so many times before, half-dressed with his arms full of clothing, leaving a trail of frosty breath behind him in the chill February air. What had happened to him after this, after he had vanished behind the yard’s dry-stone wall, she could not say.
He was still the Courier’s Crimean correspondent, of course. Nathaniel would not allow the journal in the house, but on her wanderings with Annabel she occasionally came across a copy. Annabel, reading it, would shake her head, and say a few curt words about the recklessness and arrogance of this ‘Tomahawk’s’ style. Madeleine would at first give ardent thanks that he was still alive, that he did not lie in a mass grave somewhere. A moment lat
er she would succumb to misery as her morose confusion at his absence deepened yet further. Seeing her distress, Annabel would pat her arm with rough sympathy and tell her that the scapegrace was supremely unworthy of her affections. This did not help.
It was an impossible mystery. Madeleine had no option but to go on, avoiding her husband and his tortures as best she could, moping along beside Annabel, longing for Richard. Since his disappearance, she found that many aspects of the war that she had previously been able to endure had become quite overwhelming. Every stuttering of rifle fire, every stray shot from the Russian artillery, made her want to cry aloud with despair as she imagined, with startling clarity, bullets cutting into her lover’s body, and the ground exploding under him–casting him into a ditch, where he would perish in agony, her name upon his lips.
Madeleine’s surprise, therefore, when Richard Cracknell suddenly came into view, trotting alongside the column of Guardsmen, was so great that she felt as if it might stop her heart where she sat. She blinked and stared, her mouth falling open.
He looked well, very different from the half-starved, mud-splattered, mortally injured hero of her desolate fancy; he looked prosperous, in fact, well dressed in a new overcoat, peaked cap and boots, and even a little plumper than he had been in the Spring. Wherever he had been, he had taken good care of himself. Madeleine leapt joyfully to her feet, the bed-sheets falling around her. He was coming back. They were going to Spain at last, as he had promised. At any moment, he would leave the column and head towards the farmhouse door, towards a blissful reunion after a lengthy, dismal separation. She clutched her hands before her breast, tense with anticipation.
But he kept on going. She watched the striding figure in absolute disbelief. He was not coming to meet her, to take her in his arms and rescue her from this place. He was going on to the front, to risk his life needlessly once again, for the sake of his magazine.
The Street Philosopher Page 38
