The Street Philosopher Read online

  3

  The cauldron was heavy, and Annabel was glad indeed to set it down. She straightened up and put her hands on the small of her back, rubbing the aching muscles. Who would have thought that broth could weigh so much? The soldiers in the nearest pickets began to look around, nudging each other. Word started to travel along the positions on Inkerman Ridge.

  ‘Broth, my lads!’ she announced, peering through the steam that rose from the cauldron. ‘Hot broth, come and get some!’

  They shuffled towards her out of the early morning fog, holding out their army-issue tin mugs for a ladleful of the watery brown liquid and then retreating. Some muttered thanks. Most said nothing, and kept their eyes fixed on the ground. One or two looked at her most oddly–and none too pleasantly. She suppressed a shudder, keeping a broad, compassionate smile plastered on her face. These men were killing, she reminded herself, killing on an almost daily basis, and they were being killed as well, in their droves, and sleeping in dirt, and living on filth. Do not presume to judge them. Judgement is the Lord’s right, and His right alone.

  ‘That’s right, my lads, drink up. And remember, the light of Almighty God is upon thee always. Speaketh unto Him and thou will be heard. Today is the Sabbath. Be sure to offer up thy prayers and devotions this day. As the good book tells us: the eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and His ears are attentive to their cry.’

  As if to fortify her words, through the oppressive gloom came the sound of distant church bells, tolling within the besieged city, calling the faithful of Sebastopol to the first service of the day. Annabel thought about remarking upon this to the soldiers, but decided against it. It was probably best not to remind them of their Christian kinship with an enemy whom they would soon be ordered to fight to the death once more.

  Annabel looked around for her young partner in her labours, and for a few seconds could not locate her. The girl had retreated a few yards after putting down the cauldron, and now stood all but enveloped in fog, the hood of her cloak raised against the drizzling rain. There was still something of the officer’s wife about her, Annabel noticed. She remained reluctant to mix with the common soldiery.

  ‘Madeleine, what are you doing back there? Come forward, if you please. There is more to be done.’

  As Madeleine returned obediently to her side, Annabel was struck yet again by the girl’s beauty. Such a woman must be used to the adoration of all London–of all England. That she had chosen to stay in the camps said much, Annabel thought, for the Christian goodness of the soul beneath. The majority of the wives had headed straight back to Constantinople after the shocking loss of the Light Brigade, and the first frost; but this young woman, scarcely out of childhood, had opted to remain, and furthermore was prepared to assist with the alleviation of the suffering of the fighting men.

  The unmarried sister of a chaplain from the 93rd Highlanders, Annabel Wade had travelled from Speyside to the Crimea quite independently of the British Army. Motivated by her stern Evangelical faith and a compassionate desire to lend whatever assistance she could, she was inexhaustible in her efforts to relieve the difficulties of the men on the front lines. She had met Madeleine in the Commissariat storehouse supplying the Light Division, where Annabel had been berating the officer behind the counter for the continued lack of winter clothing. They had conversed, and she had welcomed Madeleine’s cautious offer of assistance without hesitation.

  Annabel could tell, however, that the situation with Madeleine Boyce was not quite as simple as it seemed. Spousal loyalty had played no part in her determination to stay–she only spoke of her husband with barely contained hatred or dismissive contempt. Neither, despite her efforts, was the plight of the soldiers her true reason. There was another motive at play. Annabel entertained no speculation, but she kept her eyes open. She knew that this girl was going to require her help.

  Madeleine smiled at a private with a dirty bandage wrapped around his head, who was approaching the cauldron. He stared at her as if she were some manner of apparition come to taunt him in his misery. She looked away uneasily.

  Annabel stepped forward, taking the private’s mug, filling it, and then pressing it back firmly into his hands. ‘There you go, laddie, a lovely mug of broth to warm the bones against this perishing cold. God go with thee.’ The man wandered off without a word, casting a long backward look at Madeleine as he went.

  This rescue was typical of Annabel. In the weeks that they had been together, this admirable, fearless lady had taken on the role of Madeleine’s protector; and as a genuine affection burgeoned between them, she guarded her friend like a Caledonian mastiff.

  Madeleine’s standard excuses for absenting herself from her husband’s tent had soon lost their credibility once the siege of Sebastopol was underway. The official issue of supplies–of what few supplies there were–was now regulated by a Commissariat store so close to where the 99th were pitched that it took but minutes to visit it. The exodus of the other officers’ wives back to Constantinople had robbed her of an infinite source of imaginary social arrangements. She had been left with no good reason to do anything but attend on Nathaniel. He had continued in his usual abuses, insulting her, beating her, subjecting her to intimate assaults; and had soon realised that he had a new weapon to use. The notion of sending her back to England had started to be broached several times a day. He had talked of how a couple of the very best men had already ordered their wives home; no longer, it seemed, did such a course of action carry its previous implications of poverty and dishonour. She knew that she would have to think of something quickly.

  Then, as if by the divine providence she so frequently invoked, Annabel Wade had appeared. Nathaniel could hardly object to her undertaking such useful work, which was so beneficial to the army, alongside a lady of eminent respectability. Of course, he was deeply suspicious at first; but no matter how much scrutiny he applied to the proposition, not a trace of Richard Cracknell could be detected about it.

  And as he rode out one bright October morning, in the hopeful days before the loss of the Light Brigade, none other than Lord Raglan had noticed Madeleine and Annabel distributing slices of fresh cheese to an artillery company. He had ridden over and accepted some both for himself and his horse. Quite charmed, the elderly commander-in-chief had praised their efforts warmly and asked their names. A couple of days later, Nathaniel had been summoned before him, and congratulated at length for possessing a wife whose beauty and grace was exceeded only by her noble generosity of spirit. Raglan revealed that he had been informed that Nathaniel had yet to be made a full colonel, despite having led his regiment into battle at the Alma. This he had remedied on the spot; and Madeleine, having been so instrumental in drawing the commander-in-chief’s attention to her husband, was no longer threatened with a passage back to England. Lord Raglan had admired her, so she would remain in the Crimea. Nathaniel’s scrutiny had relaxed.

  The resulting freedom was dizzying. She could meet with Richard whenever he requested it. Annabel asked few questions. Everyone else in the camps seemed to have more pressing matters to attend to than the movements of Madeleine Boyce. The cost, however, was mornings like this one. Madeleine did not feel that she was at all suited to the duties Annabel assigned her.

  ‘They do not like me,’ she said weakly.

  Her companion gave a short, dry laugh. ‘No, my dear, I think they like you quite well enough. It is lucky indeed that your husband is not a jealous man.’

  Madeleine could not help but smile at this. ‘Oh Annabel, you do not know what you are saying,’ she murmured.

  Someone spoke her name, close by; a man with a polished voice, certainly not a common soldier. Madeleine turned to see Mr Styles, Richard’s illustrator, clad in a cap and a long black coat. He was unshaven and dirty, his face gaunt. In his hands was clasped a small notebook, open with its front cover bent back; on the exposed page, she noticed, was a sketch of a large crow, pulling at something with its beak.

  ‘Why, Mr Styles
,’ she answered lightly. ‘It has been some time since last we met, sir. How are you faring?’

  ‘I am alive, Madame, and persevering as best I can,’ he said with a wan grin, removing his cap and closing the notebook. ‘It has been a good few weeks, hasn’t it? I had hoped that we would meet around the camp.’

  There was something accusatory in his manner; Madeleine realised that Mr Styles believed that he had a grievance against her. ‘Well, I have been very busy, sir,’ she said apologetically, ‘assisting my friend here.’ She looked to Annabel, hoping to draw her in to the conversation and break the absolute concentration that Mr Styles had fixed upon her. Annabel, however, was fully occupied with the distribution of the broth.

  ‘I had hoped,’ the illustrator continued, his tone hardening a little, ‘that you might seek me out, Mrs Boyce. After I rescued you, I mean.’

  Madeleine glanced into his bloodshot eyes. The strange despair she saw there made every thought leave her mind. She hesitated uncomprehendingly. ‘Sir, I do not know to what you are referring, but I—’

  Mr Styles flinched as if struck. ‘My rescue of you,’ he broke in. ‘Down by the river, during the battle of the Alma. I saved you from those Cossacks, Mrs Boyce. Do you honestly not remember?’

  As he spoke, a distinct recollection returned to Madeleine: of standing with a soaked Mr Styles on the Alma’s grassy bank–of holding his wet, long-fingered hand between hers–in the moments before she had been seized by her husband and dragged across the Heights like a disgraced child. ‘Of–of course. Do forgive me.’ She took a tentative step towards Annabel, who, already alerted by the aggressive volume of the illustrator’s voice, was now eyeing him watchfully. ‘And I remain very grateful, Mr Styles, for what you did,’ she said gently, trying to placate him. ‘So much has happened since then, though, so many terrible things, that I find one cannot help–’

  Mr Styles was not listening. ‘But I saved you. You said that you would not forget it. You promised. We—’ He stopped abruptly, his distress darkening to a suspicious anger. ‘Cracknell has been telling you things, hasn’t he? That I quailed before the enemy–that I am a–a worthless coward?’

  Madeleine turned from him awkwardly, not knowing what to say. During their first liaison after the battle, Richard had indeed described with some relish how her handsome boy-genius, the would-be lover she admired so much, had come apart at the first sight of blood, shrivelling up like a carnation tossed onto the fire. And although vaguely aware that this was not a fair estimation, she had not challenged it.

  Her wordless confusion gave the troubled illustrator his answer. Before he could speak, however, Annabel intervened, introducing herself with loud amiability and asking him if he was the same Mr Styles employed by the London Courier.

  Mr Styles lifted a hand to his brow, and spoke curtly. ‘Madam, I must ask you to leave Mrs Boyce and I alone. There are certain matters that we must discuss in private, without your interference.’

  There was a sudden animosity in his voice, and a presumption in his words, that made Madeleine catch her breath.

  ‘And what matters might those be, Mr Styles?’ Annabel asked, her expression still cordial but her tone now steely and resolute. She moved slightly to the side, interposing herself between Madeleine and the illustrator.

  ‘As I believe I told you, they are private,’ he replied with deliberate rudeness. ‘I will not tell you any more than that. Now, I must ask again that you leave us.’

  Madeleine’s surprise quickly turned to indignation. The arrogance of the man, imagining that he had the right to demand access to her, and insult her friend so freely! She pushed past Annabel. ‘Really, Mr Styles, you forget yourself! I am quite certain that I cannot think of anything–anything–more that you and I might have to discuss. Good morning to you, sir!’

  She took hold of one side of the cauldron and began to drag it away from the trenches and into the fog, in the rough direction of the British camps. Both Annabel and Mr Styles started after her, then grabbed for the cauldron, one trying to aid in its carrying, the other to halt Madeleine’s progress by holding on to it.

  ‘Please, Mrs Boyce,’ Mr Styles began desperately, ‘you misunderstand me most sorely. My only wish was to communicate to you how much I—’

  A series of rapid notes from a nearby bugle, its precise location lost in the fog, brought them to a halt. This sharp sequence repeated, and then repeated again. Officers began to shout; a thousand men got hurriedly to their feet and reached for their weapons.

  Madeleine’s gaze met Mr Styles’. ‘An attack,’ he said. ‘They’re sounding an attack.’

  The cauldron fell to the ground, tepid broth slopping over the side, striking against mud rather than the grass that still covered most of the ridge. Annabel saw that they had arrived at the edge of the road that connected the camps with the eastern pickets. It stretched off into the blank, infinite fog; she could not tell which direction was which. The bugles continued, with more joining the chorus. Somewhere, she could hear rifles crackling, and then the elemental sound of cannon, rolling across the ridges and ravines of the Allied lines.

  ‘Dear God,’ she whispered.

  With a start, Annabel realised that Madeleine and Mr Styles had moved off into the long grass on the far side of the road. They were already only silhouettes against the fog’s obliterating greyness, but she could see that the young man was trying to take Madeleine in his arms, whilst she fought against him with all her strength. Annabel reached swiftly into the cauldron and took hold of the iron ladle.

  A column of greatcoated infantry loomed suddenly into view, marching along the road at the double, cutting her off from Madeleine like the carriages of a train. Annabel could not wait for them to pass. Summoning her strength, she shoved into the close ranks and began to squeeze her way through. There was much jostling and cursing, and even some laughter. An NCO shouted for the soldiers to keep up the pace. She could smell gun grease and unwashed men. Her bonnet got caught on a button; she tore it off and ploughed onward with all her might.

  And then she tumbled out the other side, immediately launching herself in the direction she had last seen Madeleine and Mr Styles. They were soon revealed, in much the same pose as before. Teeth gritted, Annabel drew back her arm to its full extent and swung the ladle at Mr Styles. There was a flat clang as its scooped end connected with the side of his head, and he released Madeleine with a cry. She struck him again; he slipped and fell to the floor, knocking off his cap as he brought up his arms to protect himself.

  Annabel raised her ladle a third time, but a hand locked around her wrist, restraining her. She turned to see a lean civilian with a brown beard, dressed much like every other on the campaign–that is to say, like a vagrant, in a combination of old, mismatched clothes. Annabel Wade was a solidly built woman of forty-eight and no stranger to manual labour; she perceived straight away that she was a match for this person and began to strain hard against his grasp.

  ‘Madam, please,’ he said, trying to keep his footing, ‘we are his colleagues, from the London Courier. Halt your attack and we will remove him.’

  The man’s voice was calm even in its insistence. Something in it made Annabel comply with his request. She stepped back, lowering the ladle. Mr Styles was still on the ground, dabbing at a cut on his forehead. The lean man asked him kindly if he was all right, and received only a surly grunt in response.

  Voices were raised a short distance away; one was Madeleine’s. Annabel whirled around to see her in another man’s arms, this time a hefty fellow with a large black beard. The situation seemed to have roughly reversed, though; she was trying to cleave herself to him whilst he sought to fend her off. Sobbing, she was imploring him not to go to the front line. He replied that he had to, that it was his duty–but that she should return to the camps with all speed. Annabel realised that these two men had been following the column into battle, to report on it for their magazine.

  Then Mr Styles, up on his knees now, start
ed once again to beg Madeleine’s forgiveness for his behaviour. The black-bearded man rounded on his young colleague savagely, shrugging Madeleine off and walking towards him.

  ‘You seem truly to imagine yourself my rival,’ he was saying in a low voice, ‘but I’ll tell you this for nothing, my lad–a woman like that won’t even look at a man such as you. You think it’s all about your pretty face, or your skill with a pen, your prospects, but it’s about none of these. It’s about substance–and you, my lad, are a man of very little substance. Why, think of the Alma, when you cowered like an infant! You are—’

  The lean man strode between them, pushing the black-beard back with some difficulty. ‘Enough, Cracknell! Leave him be!’

  Annabel went to Madeleine; but the girl rushed past her, eyes red and swollen, and threw herself at Cracknell, grabbing on to the cape of his greatcoat and beseeching him to come with her to safety in a manner that was painful to behold. Gathering both her slender wrists into one of his hands, he slapped her hard across the face with the other. This silenced her abruptly.

  ‘Sir!’ thundered Annabel, starting furiously towards him. ‘For shame, sir!’

  He looked around, bidding her good morning with cool self-assurance. ‘You must be Miss Annabel Wade. I have heard much about you. I am Richard Cracknell, the London Courier’s chief correspondent. This here’s Thomas Kitson, my junior.’

  The lean man tipped his cap. ‘Miss Wade,’ he said apologetically, as if embarrassed on his senior’s behalf.

  Cracknell sneered at the young man on the ground, who was staring down at the grass in mute humiliation, blood from the cut winding slowly around his eye. ‘Mr Styles I think you’ve already met. Would you be so kind as to take Mrs Boyce back to the camps?’ He pushed the stunned Madeleine towards Annabel. ‘Come, Thomas, let us go. We have work to do. Get up, Mr Styles, for God’s sake.’