Part 9 (1/2)

'Yes, Thomas, to Manchesterto this thing, this Art Treasures Exhibition.' Cracknell spoke slowly, as if addressing an idiot.

'Howhow did you discover this?'

'Simply by using the investigative skills that have made me such an effective newspapermanskills you would do well to recover.' Cracknell drew again on his cigarette, his broad face puckering with malevolence. 'You and I alone know the full extent of that man's crimes. And we're going to punish him. More than that, we're going to b.l.o.o.d.y well destroy him destroy him. You'll see.'

Kitson stared speechlessly at the luminous windows of the Polygon, a profusion of disturbing scenarios playing out in his mind. Addresses were underway inside, the a.s.sembled guests suddenly shaking with laughter. He caught a glimpse of Jemima amidst the admiring crowd, standing behind her chortling father, her slender arms crossed with impatience.

The French windows opened, and a pair of footmen emerged. It was obvious who they sought; Kitson looked around, but saw only the moonlit garden. Cracknell had disappeared.

Before Sebastopol, Crimean Peninsula OctoberNovember 1854

1.

'From the western end of the Causeway Heights, just north of Balaclava, the true scale of the calamity is revealed. A skein of shattered Balaclava, the true scale of the calamity is revealed. A skein of shattered bodies is cast across the floor of the valley beyond, the men bodies is cast across the floor of the valley beyond, the men and their horses intermingled in death, knocked to pieces by grape, and their horses intermingled in death, knocked to pieces by grape, canister and shot. Patches of bright colour, the cherry red of a canister and shot. Patches of bright colour, the cherry red of a Hussar's Hussar's overalls, the golden yellow of a standard, or the blue of overalls, the golden yellow of a standard, or the blue of a a Lancer's Lancer's tunic, can be made out in amongst the dust and blood; tunic, can be made out in amongst the dust and blood; and tiny sparks of light ripple over the surface of the carnage, where and tiny sparks of light ripple over the surface of the carnage, where bridles, spurs, b.u.t.tons and blades catch the setting sun.' bridles, spurs, b.u.t.tons and blades catch the setting sun.'

Kitson lowered his pocketbook and rubbed his aching eyes. He sat blankly for a few moments, then cleared his throat and tried to begin his next sentence. His mind kept stumbling, however, the words emerging in the wrong order or not at all. After six or seven attempts he gave up, and only just managed to prevent himself hurling his pencil down the hillside.

Cracknell came panting up the path from the low-walled redoubts further along the Heights, around which the earlier stages of the battle had been fought. His brow was s.h.i.+ning with sweat. 'd.a.m.n this country,' he gasped, spitting out a bead of phlegm. 'How vertiginous it is! Enough to bring a fellow's heart to bursting point.'

He staggered over to where Kitson was sitting, complaining about various aspects of life on the peninsula. The view from the summit, however, was enough to silence even Richard Cracknell.

'So there it is,' he said eventually. 'The Light Brigade is lost.'

Black-winged carrion birds were circling down towards the valley floor with the lazy ease of creatures who knew that a certain feed awaited them. There was a distant dash of musketry from the far side of the valley, on the Fedyukhin Hills, where the Russian Army had managed to gain a lasting foothold after the battle. They seemed to be firing on a British detail sent out to retrieve the last of the wounded, which had accidentally strayed into range.

Cracknell turned away, fumbling with a cigarette. 'h.e.l.l's teeth,' he muttered, 'they might as well have sent the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.ds charging straight at the barricades of Sebastopol.'

He sat down heavily and asked to see what Kitson had. The junior correspondent handed over his pocketbook and lay back on the gra.s.s, gazing up at the evening sky, following wisps of cloud as they drifted out to sea. Kitson was immensely tired. It had been many nights since he had rested properly. He had always been a light sleeper, easily disturbed; and the noise of the Allied artillery bombardment, although over two miles distant from the small hut Cracknell had secured for them, was more than he could stand. This dull, constant fatigue was slowly leeching away his vigour, his eloquence, and his enthusiasm for his work.

Cracknell, Kitson realised, was pleased. 'This is good, Thomas,' he said approvingly. 'Good indeed. You have a real feeling for the human tragedy of all thisfor the plight of the men who are falling victim to our generals' woeful inept.i.tude. The political and the strategic elements elude you almost completely, of course, but this is to be expected, given your background. You write through sorrow and sympathy rather than anger, a deficiency well supplied by my own commentaries.' He tossed the pocketbook on to Kitson's chest. 'This, my friend, is why we are such an effective partners.h.i.+p.'

Their account of the battle of the Alma and its aftermath had been published mere days after the event, thanks to the wonder of the electric telegraph. Filled with both copious praise for the fighting men and severe criticism of Lord Raglan and his generals, it had been a major success for the Courier Courier, completely selling out the issue that had carried it. Telegrams had arrived from O'Farrell relating its impact, and the fierce debate it had provokedand urging them to keep up the good work. Already, however, there had been signs of how this prominence might have adverse effects. Shortly after publication, the Captain whose vessel conveyed their reports to the telegraph office at Varna had stated that he was no longer prepared to a.s.sociate with them. Cracknell had found this encouraging, strangely enough, and a new messenger had been secured that same morning; but for Kitson at least, a worrying precedent had been set.

The senior correspondent now started to read out his own work. It was predictably blunt and confrontational, littered with speculation, fearlessly a.s.signing blame to those in command. There was a delight in Cracknell's voice, a deep pleasure in his own polemical savagery that was utterly incongruous with his subject. Kitson closed his eyes.

'A crime was done today, dear reader,' the report concluded stridently the report concluded stridently, 'a great and terrible crime against all the codes and usages of war. Our foe, the men of Tsar Nicholas, took a great chance, usages of war. Our foe, the men of Tsar Nicholas, took a great chance, rus.h.i.+ng out of Sebastopol in ma.s.sive numbers, cunningly skirting rus.h.i.+ng out of Sebastopol in ma.s.sive numbers, cunningly skirting the Allied camps on the plateau to strike at Balaclava, the port the Allied camps on the plateau to strike at Balaclava, the port supplying their supplying their besiegers besiegers. They were thwarted, but only after a great many valiant lives had been squandered due to the wretched stupidity many valiant lives had been squandered due to the wretched stupidity of a villainous, cold-hearted cadre of aristocratic buffoons. Our Light of a villainous, cold-hearted cadre of aristocratic buffoons. Our Light Cavalry, among the finest in the world, was left unused at the Alma, Cavalry, among the finest in the world, was left unused at the Alma, when it could have made a real difference; and has now been when it could have made a real difference; and has now been destroyed needlessly at Balaclava. This reprehensible waste seems destroyed needlessly at Balaclava. This reprehensible waste seems the result of a spat between n.o.blemen, between the famous enemies the result of a spat between n.o.blemen, between the famous enemies (and, we might add, brothers-in-law) (and, we might add, brothers-in-law) Lucan Lucan and Cardigan. The and Cardigan. The latter, who supposedly led the charge, was interestingly among the latter, who supposedly led the charge, was interestingly among the very first back to safety; and whilst so many of his men lay bleeding very first back to safety; and whilst so many of his men lay bleeding in the dust, the Earl was enjoying a bath on his yacht in Balaclava in the dust, the Earl was enjoying a bath on his yacht in Balaclava harbour, with the prospect of a fine dinner before him. Such is the harbour, with the prospect of a fine dinner before him. Such is the calibre of leaders.h.i.+p in the Crimea!' calibre of leaders.h.i.+p in the Crimea!'

His recitation complete, Cracknell launched directly into a pa.s.sionate tirade about the wider strategic failings of the campaignabout how Raglan had made yet another error in listening to his engineers rather than his generals and bringing up the artillery for a bombardment instead of mounting an immediate attack.

'Now they pound away at earthworks with cannon, achieving nothing and allowing Russians to come at us as they have done here. And still, still still they talk so lightly of Sebastopol falling in a matter of weeks!' He got to his feet and gazed out at the gruesome panorama before them. 'Honestly, I cannot believe that I supported this war at its outset. I s.h.i.+ver with embarra.s.sment, Thomas, at the praise I heaped on this wrong-headed enterprise. I honestly thought that they had a proper plan of actionthat they they talk so lightly of Sebastopol falling in a matter of weeks!' He got to his feet and gazed out at the gruesome panorama before them. 'Honestly, I cannot believe that I supported this war at its outset. I s.h.i.+ver with embarra.s.sment, Thomas, at the praise I heaped on this wrong-headed enterprise. I honestly thought that they had a proper plan of actionthat they had had to have one.' He shook his head, exhaling cigarette smoke. 'But they do not, my friend; they most definitely do not.' to have one.' He shook his head, exhaling cigarette smoke. 'But they do not, my friend; they most definitely do not.'

After a few seconds' further contemplation, the senior correspondent let out an exclamation and pointed down at the redoubts. Kitson sat up. Turkish troops were removing the bodies of their slain comrades from the crude defensive structures, piling them up outside the walls like rolls of tattered, b.l.o.o.d.y cloth.

'Our Turkish allies,' Kitson said. 'I hear that they suffered heavy casualties resisting the Russian advance, before the British forces had turned out. Their sacrifice is worthy of mention, Mr Cracknell, do you not think?'

'Codswallop,' proclaimed Cracknell forcefully. 'The heathen dogs let two forts fall. Their cowardice d.a.m.n near cost us the day. But I wasn't looking at them.' He tapped Kitson's arm, and then pointed again. 'Highlanders, man. Sir Colin Campbell and his ADC.'

The two officers from the Highland Brigade, in their kilts of dark green tartan and their black feather bonnets, weren't difficult to locate. They stood to one side of the redoubt, in conversation with an upright, bearded civilian in a long blue frock-coat, a peaked cap and highly polished riding boots.

'Russell of the Times Times,' Cracknell growled. 'My great rival. Ingratiating himself as usual. The slimy toadI'll bet he saw everything.' The Courier Courier team, delayed by the unexplained absence of their senior, had arrived in the valley some time after the final shot had been fired, and had been obliged to rely on eye-witnesses for their information on the battle itself. 'Here's what we'll do. I'll go down there, have a jaw with Billy Russell and those two bonnie Scotsmen, and see what more I can learn about the action. You stay here and brush up what we've got so far.' team, delayed by the unexplained absence of their senior, had arrived in the valley some time after the final shot had been fired, and had been obliged to rely on eye-witnesses for their information on the battle itself. 'Here's what we'll do. I'll go down there, have a jaw with Billy Russell and those two bonnie Scotsmen, and see what more I can learn about the action. You stay here and brush up what we've got so far.'

Kitson jotted a note in his pocketbook. 'What of Styles?' he asked wearily. 'It has been some time since he left for the valley floor.'

'What? Oh yesdon't want him collapsing again, do we, with neither of us around to prop him up!' Cracknell chuckled wickedly. 'Very wellyou find the boy then. I want you to keep up your watch on Mr Styles for me, Thomas. The lad's is a little soft in the head, I think. He'll need some careful supervision during the trials to come, you mark my words.'

Kitson watched as the senior correspondent trotted off towards the redoubt, shouting a robust 'hallo' to Russell and the Highlanders. That he could make such avuncular p.r.o.nouncements with every appearance of sincerity was remarkable. In the month since the clash at the Alma, his treatment of Styles had been consistently, characteristically merciless, both with regards to the events of that day and the enduring issue of Madeleine Boyce. It was this unrelenting mockery, Kitson suspected, that was driving Styles to seek more and more time alone.

Cracknell reached the Times Times' correspondent and his companions, who greeted him with obvious reluctance. Kitson turned and headed down into the valley. He followed a narrow, winding footpath, cut deep into the gra.s.s by centuries of pa.s.sage by Tartar shepherds. The hills around him were smooth and treeless, and dotted with pale rocks. In the distance, beyond the wide plateau that held the main Allied camps, the location of Sebastopol and its fortifications was marked by a few winding trails of grey smoke. To the left, off between two steep green spurs, was the dark ribbon of the sea.

Slowly, the slope began to level out, and Kitson pa.s.sed through a large, abandoned vineyard. It was yet another corner of the fecund peninsula rendered barren by the invasion, yellow dust caking the withered, trampled vines. As he picked his way towards the valley floor, the arid furrows became littered with the detritus of a recent battle. A beaten-in dragoon's helmet told him that this was where Brigadier-General Scarlett's Heavy Brigade had repelled the Russian cavalry, just after the struggle for the redoubts. Sc.r.a.ps of uniform from both armies had been sown into the vineyard by hundreds of stamping hooves, and sabre-shards winked like flints in the crumbling earth. Pus.h.i.+ng aside a screen of ragged, browning leaves, Kitson saw a hand, severed just below the wrist, lying on the ground before him. White as soap, it was frozen in a loose pointing gesture, with a silver wedding band on the ring finger. Averting his gaze, he hurried on.

Styles was sitting atop a boulder in plain sight, as close to the battlefield as was safe. He was hunched over his paper, hard at work in the soft evening light, a battered cap of uncertain provenance pushed back on his head. Without speaking, Kitson approached, and peered over to see Styles' subject. The drawing in his lap depicted one of the many dead chargers laid out on the bed of the valley. This horse had been gutted by a cannonball, its entrails entirely gone, the carca.s.s lying darkly hollow like an empty sh.e.l.l.

Kitson sighed, leaning up against the boulder and crossing his arms. This grisly scene was becoming typical of Styles' productions. Only one of his drawings, in fact, depicting the battlefield of the Alma, had so far been engraved for the Courier Courier; since that day, the ill.u.s.trator had been exposing himself to the most distressing sights that the war had to offer, dwelling upon them at unhealthy length. The resulting images were nightmarish, and completely unusable.

'Do you really imagine that the Courier Courier will run that?' Kitson asked. Despite his best efforts, he could not keep the impatience from his voice. will run that?' Kitson asked. Despite his best efforts, he could not keep the impatience from his voice.

Styles stopped drawing. He did not reply.

'I realise what you are attempting,' Kitson went on, 'truly I do. And as ever, your great skill is evident. But you must realise that no magazine in England would print such an image.'

The ill.u.s.trator turned towards him sharply. 'I am only doing what we came out here for, Kitson,' he snapped. 'To see war for what it is. Or have you forgotten?'

I have lost his confidence, Kitson thought. For some reason, he considers us to be adversaries. How had this happened? He uncrossed his arms and put his hands in his pockets, feeling suddenly ashamed, wondering how he could repair the damage that had plainly been done.

Styles stared out at the valley. 'Do you know what happened yet?'

Kitson brushed a fat autumnal fly from the shoulder of his jacket, trying as he did so to keep his eyes off the slaughter. The light breeze carried over a revolting, fleshy stench, already tainted with putrefaction. Over at the foot of the Causeway Heights, privates from the Highland Brigade were burying fallen hussars. Still clad in their magnificent uniforms, the bodies were being swung into deep pits, their brocaded sleeves flapping behind them as they plummeted to their graves.

'As far as we can deduce,' he said quietly, 'Cardigan's men were supposed to charge the contested redoubts up on the Heights, but went head-on for the Russian artillery instead. G.o.d only knows why.'

'So it was a mistake. Not even an ordinary defeat. All this death for the sake of aa blunder blunder.' Styles' voice grew bitterly angry. 'They will try to disguise what happened here, you know. They will try to dress it up in the garb of heroismmake it acceptable, admirable even. I must stand against this in my work, Kitson, do you not see? I must show the truth truth.'

'I do understand that, Styles, believe me, but-'

'Then keep to your business,' he interrupted, 'and allow me to keep to mine.'

Frowning, Kitson glanced away. How could he challenge this? Revelation of the truth of warfare, as he had declared himself on many previous occasions, was the cornerstone of the Courier' Courier's presence in the Crimea. Yet for some reason it made him profoundly uncomfortable to hear this from Styles now. This same commitment fuelled Cracknell's grandiloquent rage, spurring the senior correspondent on to ever more scathing condemnation of the British commanders; in the young ill.u.s.trator, however, it seemed to be fostering only a dark and violent melancholy.

'Come, Robert,' Kitson said after a while, adopting a conciliatory tone. 'We must not quarrel. G.o.d knows, this land needs no more ill-feeling in it. We are friends, are we not?'