At this the Queen of England, sovereign of all the mighty Empire, looked at Boyce and smiled. ‘Brigadier, please excuse our manner, but on occasions like these there are so very many people seeking to impinge on our time. It really cannot be said often enough how grateful we are for your bold service–and sacrifice–in the Crimea. And you have our warmest congratulations on your acquisition,’ Victoria continued. ‘A Roman Raphael–as we understand yours to be–is a rare prize indeed.’ She turned to Prince Albert. ‘Our husband prefers the sterner feel of the early Northern schools, but we are still won over absolutely by the eternal beauties of Il Divino. Come, you must tell us how you came to possess it.’
Boyce followed the Queen to the picture, inwardly rehearsing his tale of miraculous good fortune whilst rooting around in a Florentine curiosity shop, his chest swelling with pride, his head swimming with golden visions of his glorious future. To converse with the Queen! Greatness was surely in his reach.
The lamp was raised to the Pilate. There were a couple of shocked gasps and then a decidedly awkward silence. The rain beat on the glass roof; the enormous choir sung in the great hall. The sixteen-year-old Prince Edward, slouched on one of the saloon’s seats, looked over to see what had captured the company’s attention so completely. He let out a hard laugh.
Someone had set about the Pilate with thick brushes and house-paints, smearing over the delicate ancient hues with a coarse, oleaginous mess. The picture had been utterly ruined, that much was apparent straight away; but worse still was the malicious purpose that lay behind this desecration. Upon the bowl had been written ‘the 99th Foot’, and the water within it coloured a lurid red–a red that dripped down from the rubbing hands. Pilate was washing off blood. One of these hands was now black, as if gloved, and was fastened to the forearm with several bulky straps. Across the top of the panel, in letters ten inches high, was printed ‘THE FRUIT OF A ROTTEN TREE’. Emerging from Pilate’s mouth was a crude speech-bubble containing the words, ‘A painting bought with the blood of English soldiers–and cheap at the price!!!’ And there, on the noble Roman’s face, white and glaring, was a resplendent rendition of the moustache, its points stretching outward across the canvas like the wings of an albatross.
How long did the silence continue after the Prince’s laugh? Boyce was never able to recall. A minute, five, ten? Half an hour? No one in the saloon knew how to react. Those who were not staring at the defaced painting in faintly horrified confusion were looking to the Queen, intending to take their lead from her.
‘Brigadier,’ said Victoria at last, the ghost of a smile on her pale face, ‘we do believe that they have captured your moustache to a tee.’
There was some low laughter at this, both from courtiers and the Executive Committee. Albert shook his head indulgently at the cruelty of his wife’s wit. Thomas Fairbairn had crossed the room, and was engaged in urgent conference with the chief steward.
Boyce stood as if nailed to the floor. Blinking rapidly, he was beset with a powerful, distorting sense of everything collapsing inwards, the glass above coming loose and falling down in great plates, partition walls toppling, and iron girders snapping like brittle bones. The orchestra in the main hall seemed to be sliding into horrible, tuneless discord. He was all too aware of who was responsible for this act. That blackguard Twelves had clearly failed in his task. It had been a grave error on his part, he now saw, to assign such a delicate errand to that cocksure fool. And this was the cost.
The Brigadier-General’s eyes darted to the Queen and her party. Those around her were red-faced, making ineffectual efforts to conceal their mirth. Victoria herself was regarding him with curious amusement. This, he knew with dreadful certainty, was how she would remember him for ever more: as a dark, controversial joke, as one who had, for whatever reason, earned himself a determined and rather eccentric enemy. There would always be an indefinable question hanging over him; there would always be a touch of the ridiculous appended to his name.
The sound of the rainfall upon the Art Treasures Exhibition had changed. Where once had been admiring applause, there was now only thunderous laughter, the mocking laughter of thousands, all of it directed at him.
6
The Tomahawk lit a cigarette beneath his borrowed umbrella, relishing the brief warmth of the match against his fingers. As he shook it out, he noticed a dark fleck on his thumb: a crescent of dried paint, still lodged under the nail. Grinning wickedly, he scraped out this tenacious mark with the end of the match.
He knew, of course, that he really should not be there, standing in amongst the sparse, soaking crowd that had washed up on the front steps of the Art Treasures Palace like debris after a shipwreck. He knew that he should have fled the city the previous night–made that late train for Liverpool as he’d been planning. But the desire to be present when the trap was sprung, to see its awful results for himself, had proved impossible to resist. He reckoned that he could easily slip away afterwards.
The scheme was going extremely well so far, he had to say. Kitson had exceeded expectations, rising volubly to meet every piece of carefully honed provocation and even joining him for a little tussle in the middle of the tavern. The action outside with Twelves had been an additional bonus; Cracknell had made sure that the investigator was getting a suitably sound thrashing from Bairstowe and his men before he left for the Art Treasures Palace. And the landlord had been grateful for the opportunity, he could tell. This was a fellow who could be relied upon to cover a chap’s back should the crushers come to call.
All in all, the Tomahawk had been provided with a gratifyingly robust alibi. He had already drafted a lengthy letter, in fact, addressed to a hypothetical inspector of the Manchester police. Regretfully, sir, it concluded diffidently, I cannot recall the exact hours of our sojourn in the Trafford Arms, as neither I nor my renowned friend from the Evening Star were quite ourselves. You can be sure, however, that Mr Bairstowe, the proprietor, and our fellow customers will remember our time there, and the lamentable condition in which we left. Indeed, I might venture to assert that we were certainly in no state to undertake the ambitious, infamous act that has so damaged the Brigadier-General.
There was another rolling rumble of thunder overhead. Cracknell peered out from under his umbrella, taking in the imposing ironwork façade and the elaborate patterns it contained; then his eye wandered to the tall glass doors, which were locked firmly against any intruders. Through them, past a colourless reflection of himself and those around him, he could make out the colossal nave, packed with the beautiful and brilliant, yet still looking decidedly dreary in the tempestuous half-light. He had padded up this very same hall not twelve hours earlier, in rather different conditions, with a pair of paint-pots dangling from each hand, having forced his way into the special railway corridor and crept past the two dozy Peelers on duty by the main entrance. The work itself had been done by the flame of a tiny candle, its light carefully channelled by the heavy fold of his cloak.
Had he felt anything as he daubed the oily paint over the graceful forms, as he destroyed with his mortal hands an eternal work of art, created by one of the greatest geniuses ever to lay brush on canvas? Yes, he most certainly had. He had felt an enormous satisfaction, a mighty sense of justice being done. For what is art after all, he reasoned, but so many objects–objects that men will kill to possess? That painting was a symbol of Boyce, of all his murderous wickedness; and it was with a spirited pleasure that Cracknell had gone about its destruction. And as destructions went it was pretty damn creative. He had laughed softly as the subtle moderations of colour and masterful insights of expression of the long-dead Italian were obliterated by the crude, vengeful strokes of the very much still-living Irishman.
Suddenly, a minor fracas started up inside the Exhibition Hall, the splendidly dressed audience parting in attitudes of agitation, knocking over chairs in their haste to remove themselves from something’s path. Then, to Cracknell’s delight, Brigadier-General Nathaniel Boyce
came into view, pushing aside lady and gentleman alike as he charged for the exit. Moving through the turnstile, he all but yanked the metal arm from its socket; and a moment later the doors exploded open, releasing the Brigadier-General out into the rain.
It had happened. Cracknell knew that victory was his. The blow had landed as squarely, as solidly as he could have hoped for. And now his defeated foe had been brought before him for an unexpected coup-de-grace. Boyce staggered to a halt, roughly unfastening the high, gold-encrusted collar of his dress uniform. He was breathing hard, and looked most unwell, very pale but with a startling shot of crimson in his cheeks. Well, so much the better.
Cracknell threw away his cigarette. ‘Boyce,’ he called out coolly. ‘Over here.’
The officer turned. Upon seeing Cracknell, he let out an alarming howl, a primitive, almost bestial roar of rage, and dived towards him. Boyce’s hair was awry, his ridiculous moustache in the process of collapse, and his eyes quite, quite mad.
The Tomahawk’s intention had been to say ‘For truth’, or ‘For Madeleine’, or words to that effect–to let the old bastard know exactly why this thing had been done. Boyce’s increasingly rapid progress in his direction made him hesitate, though; and when the Brigadier-General drew his dress sword in a manner suggesting that he fully intended to use it, Cracknell realised that he may have misjudged the situation somewhat.
Boyce and his magnificent uniform already had the attention of the crowd gathered there on the steps. The sight of his sword, flashing in the grey afternoon, elicited a spasm of alarm. Like a flock of startled geese the people retreated, leaving Cracknell exposed before the fuming Brigadier-General. He began to speak–just as Boyce lunged.
The sword was ceremonial, intended for grand parades rather than slaughter, but the Brigadier-General still managed to drive it a good few inches into his foe. Cracknell wavered for a moment, his lips moving wordlessly, and then dropped to his knees. With a grimace, Boyce planted a highly polished boot in the centre of the Tomahawk’s collarbone and made to pull the sword out; but the awkward angle, and the sheer force with which the officer wrenched it towards him, caused the slender blade to snap suddenly. The two men flew apart. Cracknell hit the Exhibition steps with a heavy groan, his umbrella leaping from his hand and bouncing down to the turning circle.
The Brigadier-General quickly regained his balance, altered his hold on the sword’s filigreed hilt and prepared to stab at his enemy with the broken end. Before he could do this, a large constable intervened, seizing his arm and commanding him to desist. Boyce tried to shake this man off, and the next instant half a dozen constables were on the Crimean hero, wrestling him to the ground.
Raindrops struck against Cracknell’s face, filling his eyes, his mouth, running down through his black beard. Someone close by called for a doctor. He managed to lift his head, and received a blurred impression of a hard, straight protrusion with a jagged end, poking up just above his right nipple. Beneath it, under his cloak, a bright red blot was spreading steadily across the grubby white of his shirt.
And past this he could see Boyce, still struggling to get at him, yelling with helpless, choking fury as he was taken away. Although now faint with pain, the Tomahawk could not help but let out a shallow, coughing laugh.
‘I–I am well,’ he announced hoarsely, to no one in particular. ‘Quite well …’
At Sea
July 1857
1
And so, the column concluded, the Brigadier-General is now in custody of the Manchester police, charged with attempted murder– a man disgraced. The precise motive for the Brigadier-General’s vicious assault remains unknown. His victim asserts that he was present as an independent citizen, there only to cheer his monarch. The Exhibition authorities have pleaded ignorance; its chairman, Mr Thomas Fairbairn, has said that the Brigadier-General had spoken briefly with the Queen and then excused himself from the building rather suddenly. The picture saloon in which this audience took place was closed to the public the morning after the incident, but has since reopened with the display slightly adjusted. It all seems to be an impenetrable mystery.
In the wake of this brutal and unprovoked attack, however, we note that questions are being posed in certain quarters about the Brigadier-General’s private affairs. These have focused upon his recent accumulation of wealth, and the suggestion that he benefited from inappropriate links with a certain Manchester foundry–one that prospered during the late war. The police seem reluctant to scrutinise this matter, but we understand that a number of informal investigations are already underway.
The victim, Richard Cracknell, the Tomahawk of the Courier, lies injured in the Manchester Royal Infirmary; yet already he is writing again, and has promised this publication a full account of the attack, as well as his views on the rumours of further wrongdoing, for inclusion in our very next number.
Kitson put down the paper. So there it was. Somehow, Cracknell had prevailed. He looked around the state-room of the H. M. S. Stromboli. It was decorated in a sparse, functional style; a smattering of travellers sat eating sandwiches from paper parcels and leafing idly through books and magazines. Despite everything that had occurred, he felt the slight rekindling of an all but forgotten regard. A little disquieted by this, he rose to his feet, picking up the European railway almanac he had just purchased from the counter at the stateroom’s aft end, and headed for the door to the deck. He left the copy of the London Courier lying on the table.
A group of chattering children hung from the rail of the Stromboli like washing on a line. They were staring at the coast that emerged steadily from the haze before the ship, pointing out details to one another as it drew nearer. Parents and governesses stood close behind, hands clutching their hats and bonnets to their heads, their shawls held tightly against the brisk sea wind. Squinting in the afternoon sunshine, Kitson could see a long strip of yellow beach, some low cliffs, and the rise of green fields beyond. Directly before the Stromboli was their destination, the port of Boulogne, a jumble of pale stone crowned with steeples. The bay was crowded with vessels, from fishing skiffs to large steam cruisers like the one he stood upon. Kitson rested against the rail and put his left hand upon it. The polished brass was cold to the touch. He looked down at his new plain silver ring, tapping it against the rail. It made a pleasingly sharp, reverberating sound.
Pooling their scant resources, Kitson and Jemima had managed to purchase two unostentatious wedding bands upon their arrival in London. They had taken them immediately to a small church in an alley close to Ludgate Circus, where the vicar was known to be sympathetic to those in need of a rapid betrothal, carried out with the minimum of questions asked. The wedding breakfast had taken place at a modest supper-room on the Strand, filled with barristers’ clerks. The first hours of marriage had been spent wandering the streets and parks of the Metropolis, savouring the sweet sense of being alone together, many miles from those who might lay a claim on them; the wedding night had passed in a lodging house close to London Bridge station, chosen for its convenience for catching the first morning train to Dover. Neither of them had spoken much throughout this time. It was as if both were a little dazed by the audacity of their actions. They had eloped. They had taken this great step together. They were united by it.
The marine air, after the thick atmosphere of Manchester, seemed to be almost miraculously free from taint. Kitson could already feel the salutary effect upon his injured chest. The pain had yet to disappear, but it was becoming bearable. He put the European almanac under his arm, just as the children at the rail rushed back inside, affording him a clear view of his wife. She was standing as far forward as she could, gazing at the dark, glittering waters beyond the Stromboli’s bow; and at the huge open vault of sky above. The steam horn let out a blast, the note resonating through the deck-planks. Their vessel was starting to manoeuvre into the harbour, squat tug-boats paddling up to meet it. Slowly, the steamer rotated, the wind picking up and sweeping hard down the length
of the deck. A corner of the almanac’s cover bent open, the gust flicking swiftly through the thin pages within.
Jemima’s bonnet came loose. With a cry, she turned and reached out, catching hold of it just before it was carried away into the sea. Seeing Kitson, she smiled, her auburn hair unfurling in the breeze; and he started down the deck towards her.
Author’s Note
Although much of The Street Philosopher is based closely on actual events and a number of historical figures make brief appearances, both the main story and the principal characters are completely fictional. The 99th Foot (Paulton Rangers), in particular, is an invention, imagined as a typical line regiment in the Light Division of the British expeditionary army–albeit one with some rather untypical officers. There was a 99th regiment in the British army at this time, but it spent the duration of the Russian war in Australia guarding the penal colonies. Also, although the Art Treasures Exhibition included numerous works attributed to Raphael, a depiction of Pilate washing his hands was not among them. No such painting has ever existed, and Queen Victoria’s tour of the Exhibition went off without incident.
Many sources were used in the writing of this book; all distortions and errors are, of course, my own. The Crimean sections owe an important debt to the Times reports of William Russell, with whom some of Cracknell’s more admirable attitudes originate, and to the many published diaries, letters and personal accounts written by the soldiers and civilians who were involved in the war, notably those of Nathaniel Steevens, Frederick Dallas, Roger Fenton and George Lawson.
Among the modern texts used, special mention must be made of Matthew Lalumia’s Realism and Politics in Victorian Art of the Crimean War, which first interested me in the representation of warfare–visual and verbal–in the mid-nineteenth century press. A vital reference work was Alastair Massie’s A Most Desperate Undertaking: The British Army in the Crimea, a catalogue of the 2004 exhibition at the National Army Museum in Chelsea. Also frequently consulted were volumes by Trevor Royle, Clive Ponting, J.B.R. Nicholson, A.J. Barker, Albert Seaton, Andrew Lambert and Stephen Badsey.
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