Cracknell lay on his bed in the Model Lodging House, listening to the a.s.sortment of mechanics and junior clerks who also resided there maligning him through the thin part.i.tion walls. They complained about his airs; they moaned about how long he spent in the Model's bathtub; they wondered what exactly he did all day, since he didn't seem to have any manner of gainful employment. The Tomahawk sighed. Such a cruel descent mine has been, he thought. If only these blockheads knew who they maligned so freely! If only I could afford to be where I deserve!

Ten minutes later, with his usual sense of relief, he was heading across the Model's fly-blown hallway towards the front door, brushing at his old hat as if the touch of his hand might magically restore the faded fabric. Nodding to the ghoul behind the desk, he stepped out on to the London Road. Technically speaking, he was running late, his afternoon nap having raged a little out of control; but given the person he was meeting, he hardly thought it mattered.

G.o.d, how Cracknell hated Manchester. He'd hated it from his very first glimpse, through the window of his third-cla.s.s carriage, blasted into its valley like a blackened, smoking crater. It is an abomination, he'd thought; an abomination to nature and to G.o.d. He hated the filth, of course, the clogging dirt, the indescribable stinks and the constant, pumping coal-smoke; the huge crowds of wretched, uniform humanity, surging through the lanes at their appointed hours, moving between mill, pub and slum-house; the low Irish, who were b.l.o.o.d.y everywhere, with their bare feet and starved, gormless faces, making him feel as if Cork had crawled over the sea to England to claim him back.

Most of all, though, Cracknell hated the immeasurable complacency of Manchester's elite, people like those at the Polygonpeople like Charles b.l.o.o.d.y Nortonwho sat atop this dismal ruin brazenly sucking out all the wealth. Their mendacious a.s.sertion was that their Exhibition, that paltry shed out at Old Trafford, had made their seething s.h.i.t-sack of a city the new Athens, a glorious outpost of refinement and culture. To Cracknell, however, its purpose was self interest, plain and simple. These rich factory owners had mounted their art show because they were genuinely convinced that standing cotton-spinners and buckle-casters in front of a Hogarth, or a Raphael, or a Rubens, would make them more obedientand therefore more productive on the factory floor. Before such greatness, their theory went, the working man would suddenly feel the natural order of things, abjure the bottle, and accept his place at the very bottom without complaint. It really was quite laughable, and made Cracknell think yet again that only a full-scale, palace-burning, head-chopping revolution would truly right this rotten country.

Standing for a moment before the plain frontage of the Model, Cracknell took a cigarette from his pocket. As he c.o.c.ked his head to light it, he spotted the tail, loitering beneath the crude steel arches of the railway bridge. It was one of Mr Twelves' gang. Cracknell recognised him, in fact, from the fracas in the Exhibition: a stocky fellow, his face round and flattened like that of a pug dog. The Tomahawk tutted, blowing out smoke. This was rank provincial amateurism, to send a man to follow someone who knew him by sight. He was almost offended.

Cracknell walked along the London Road until it turned into Piccadilly, leading him past the Infirmary to the wide mouth of Market Street. This mighty thoroughfare glittered with gaudy shop-fronts, their lamps already burning against the soft summer evening. He started down it. As the working day drew to a close, Market Street was caught in a final throe of commercial activity. Carriages, tradesmen's drays and omnibuses all jostled together, ignoring the signs directing them to keep to their proper sides of the road. Cries of disputation rose above the creak of spokes and springs, the crack of whips and the tramping of iron horse-shoes. The pavements were similarly packed. Placid crowds drifted like livestock between shop windows, grazing on the displays; clerks and porters hurried for home or the public house.

The Tomahawk looked around. Not only was the pug-faced man still with him, but he had been joined by a friend. Two men could only mean that a beating was planned. Cracknell waited until he was in sight of the new Exchange building, looming up like the side of an enormous drum, and then crossed the road, pausing halfway over to scratch a carthorse's silky nose. Throwing away his cigarette, he weaved up swiftly through the dense, ramshackle lanes of Shude Hill until he came to Smithfield Market, rushing under its iron-and-gla.s.s roof. This was surely the perfect place to shake a tail.

Doubling back through the stalls, he pushed his way past pails filled with dried herring, piles of white cheeses and grubby, miscellaneous heaps of earthenware. He came to a large second-hand clothes stall on a corner plot, its wares hanging like shorn, dusty skins from an ornate series of wooden rails. The owner was busy with a customer. Seizing his chance, Cracknell slipped in amongst the mult.i.tude of suits, dresses, shawls and coats, concealing himself in the folds of old material. The clothes smelled strongly of stale sweat, the salty, human odour of a thousand different people. This was oddly comforting; Cracknell sighed, thinking he could happily remain there all evening, peeking out between the sleeves at the unknowing pa.s.sers-by.

Then the pug-faced man in the black suit stalked into view, coming to a halt on the very corner on which Cracknell's clothes stall was situated. The Tomahawk noticed that he now had a small cudgel held up against the inside of his arm. These men, for all their b.u.mbling inept.i.tude, certainly meant business.

It was a pretty straightforward manoeuvreCracknell reached out, got an arm around the pug-faced man's neck and a hand on the cudgel, and pulled the rascal back into the clothes whilst keeping him off balance. The black-suit fought it, though, fought it hard.

'D'you know who you're serving?' Cracknell hissed when things were fully under his control. 'D'you have any idea what the b.a.s.t.a.r.d's involved in?'

The pug-faced man went still, saying nothing.

Cracknell tightened his grip. 'What, pray, are your instructions?'

This time he got a reply. 'Break yer legs.'

'That's all all? Mr Norton's a b.l.o.o.d.y soft touch.'

'Aye, we feel the same.' The black-suit started to thrash his free arm around, trying to get hold of some part of his a.s.sailant, but couldn't make a purchase amidst the clothes.

Cracknell took the cudgel and twisted to one side, making the black-suit lose his footing. He grabbed at the clothes as he went down; there was tearing, something snapped loudly, and a great swathe of fabric dropped away, engulfing him completely. Skipping neatly out of the remains of the stall, Cracknell looked around for the other black-suit. He was nowhere to be seen. The stall-holder started shouting furiously at the pug-faced man, who floundered as if drowning in the heavy fall of clothes. Entirely un.o.bserved, the Tomahawk left the market at the same point he had entered it and headed off to his meeting, tossing the cudgel in an alley on the way.

The Hare and Hounds on Albert Street was but a stone's throw from the Irwell, and the reek of the black river compelled Cracknell to hold his nose as he hurried through the mud and litter towards the tavern's soot-caked windows. He was most relieved to push against the peeling paint of the door and then step on to the straw inside, which at that point in the evening had only attained a moderate state of foulness.

The air in the wide, low-ceilinged room was miasmic with the sour smoke from clay pipes, farthing cheroots and hand-rolled cigarettes. Even so committed a tobacco-worshipper as Cracknell felt his eyes sting in protest at the polluted atmosphere. The clientele, newly released from their machines, were a lackl.u.s.tre lot, staring at their beer-pots in a stunned, sullen silence. Their drinking was determined, he saw, done grimly to service a necessity rather than to provide a pleasure.

Even in the dull dinginess of the Hare and Hounds, though, locating his man was not difficult. Amidst the hushed exhaustion of the pub, his slurred singing gave him a certain prominence.

''Ere upon Guard am I,' rose up the familiar voice from somewhere at the back of the room, wobbling drunkenly around its East London vowels, 'Whowho dares to say that British pluck British pluck,' here the singer stopped to emit a ragged belch, '... is somewhat on the wane is somewhat on the wane?'

Cracknell dropped into the booth, the cheap carpentry protesting beneath the weight of his ample behind. He almost removed his hat, but then thought better of it. His man was a long way gone. It had plainly been an ale-for-breakfast day. Several empty pots sat on the table before him, surely only a small fraction of what he had imbibed. He was having some trouble remaining upright on his bench, and kept clutching at the table's edge with his good hand. By his side sat a young wh.o.r.e, about sixteen, bare-headed and streaked with dirt. Her skin was an unhealthy yellow colour, her hair a greasy black. Holy Christ, Cracknell thought, does the stupid fellow actually want want a dose of the clap? a dose of the clap?

'Good day, Mr Cregg,' he said sardonically, 'I trust you are well?'

Cregg looked back at him with watery, unfocused eyes. Cracknell flinched at the sight of the ghastly, raking scars that covered one side of the man's face, the stump of the missing ear, and the pock-marked jaw and neck; the disfigurement was worse than he remembered.

Cregg, needless to say, didn't notice his reaction. 'That British valour never will be seen or known again British valour never will be seen or known again?' he staggered on, without acknowledging Cracknell's arrival. 'The Crimean page will yet be read, and 'onest cheek will glow page will yet be read, and 'onest cheek will glow...' He stopped, confused and a little annoyed: he'd forgotten the words. ''Onest cheek will glow...'

Cracknell sighed, and turned his attention to the wh.o.r.e. 'What has he paid for? The whole f.u.c.k?'

''E give me sixpence.' She shrugged and looked away. 'Didnay tell what 'e wanted forrit.'

'So you thought you'd stop here, see if any more coins appeared, and then slope off when this poor sod collapsed in the gutter?' Cracknell sneered. 'That's your game, is it, la.s.sie?'

Cregg's scored, sagging features lit up with simple triumph. 'When learning 'ow we n.o.bly fought, and thrashed the stubborn foe! foe!' He drank deeply from his pot, brown rivulets of beer running down around the sides of the crude tin cup and over his unshaven chin.

'Begone,' Cracknell said bluntly to the wh.o.r.e. 'Now.' She opened her mouth to protest. 'Be thankful that I'm letting you keep the sixpence without extracting anything in return.'

The girl slunk away like a kicked cat, paused by another table on her way to the door, and was soon sitting herself down again.

Almost a minute pa.s.sed before Cregg realised what had transpired. 'Oi, that was mine, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d! I 'ad plans there, so I did! Took me an age to find it!'

'It took you an age to find a rancid wh.o.r.e in Manchester? That I doubt, Mr Cregg. Now, gather yourself, if you can. We have much to discuss.' Cracknell scowled. 'Captain Wray, for example. And now this business at the barracks. D'ye not remember my instructions, man? You were to lie low until I sent you word. Lie low Lie low, Mr Cregg! D'ye want to end your stay in this miserable city with a Tyburn jig?'

None of this registered. 'Are you not 'aving a drink, Mister Crackers? Are you not? No? Well, I understand, chum, I really do. It's p.i.s.s, the beer up 'ere. Bleedin' p.i.s.s.'

Disregarding his supposed a.s.sistant's inebriation as best he could, Cracknell gave a brief, cautionary account of the incident in Smithfield Market, then began to talk of train times, hotel reservations and the subtle, ingenious coordinations he had devised for them to follow. Cregg was a less than receptive audience. After a few seconds of half-hearted pretence that he was paying attention, his head dipped down blearily towards the grain of the ale-splashed table, and he started to hum the tune of his song once again. Cracknell paused pointedly. Cregg misunderstood this as an invitation to repeat the song's newly remembered final line, even more volubly and boisterously than in his first rendition. Clenching his fists, the Tomahawk prepared a sharp comment to strike some sense into the hopeless buffoon before him; but sight of the fat tears that now crawled across Cregg's shredded cheek stopped this rebuke on his lips.

'Did we though, Mister Crackers? Did we?' There was an insistent longing in the man's voice. 'Did we n.o.bly fight n.o.bly fight? What does that bleedin' well mean, anyways? What n.o.bility is there in stabbin' or shootin' some poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d Russian, with as much of a clue as to why you're all there as you've got yourself? And what flamin' n.o.bility is there in being d.a.m.n well dead dead, Mister Crackers? Tell me that!'

Cracknell murmured something unconvincing about the unimpeachable integrity of the fighting soldier. It was not heard.

'And thrashed the foe thrashed the foe! Thrashed 'im!' Cregg spat. 'Ha! And we wasn't thrashed right back? When I think of 'em, of all of 'em, and the things I seen and done, it makes me feel like screamin screamin', bleedin' well screamin screamin' till me lungs come up right out of me chest.' He was starting to take deep, shuddering breaths, his battered face turning a terrible purple. 'When I think of the Major, who was 'onest as the sun and who saved my bleedin' life saved my bleedin' life, lyin' there,' is legs all b.u.g.g.e.red, andand then what happened afterwards ...'

Cregg collapsed forward on to the table, unable to continue. Cracknell leant over hesitantly and patted his shoulder, aware that they were starting to attract some proper attention. He softly reminded the weeping Cregg that the two of them were working towards balancing the scales right there and then and would avenge the wrongs that had been done to them. Cregg was quite inconsolable, though, his mutilated face buried in his arms, his body heaving as he sobbed. So this is where my money has gone, thought Cracknell with resignation, sitting back on his creaking bench. Down the throat of a man determined to drink himself into the madhouse. It is fortunate indeed that I have devised an alternative strategy.

With all the bad luck and injustice he had experienced up to this point, Cracknell still could not quite believe the gift that had been handed to him in the form of Thomas Kitson. He had been astonished to find his former junior in Manchester, sc.r.a.ping by as a street philosopher, a b.l.o.o.d.y penny-a-line man on some sad little local paperand his amazement had only increased with each new discovery. The tentative affair with Jemima James, the razor-tongued widow; choleric old Norton, Boyce's willing tool, and his sodomite son; the general atmosphere of suspicion, of plotting, of intrigue; and now this, hired men in Norton's employ hunting him like a boar through the streets of the city. It was exquisite, almost too perfect. All he had to do was wait for the moment to grow ripe and then reach out to pluck it.

Cracknell looked dispa.s.sionately at Cregg, slumped snivelling in a puddle of ale. This was hardly a man to be relied upon during the days ahead. His mind was quite broken. The Tomahawk's choice was clear.

Before Sebastopol, Crimean Peninsula January 1855

1.

The bundle of winter jackets that Madeleine carried was so large that she could barely keep hold of it. Her arms were stretched out in front of her, embracing her burden tightly, her interlocked fingers straining to contain the bulging roll of wool and leather. As she crossed the loose boundary between the French and British camps, stumbling on the rutted, frozen mud underfoot, one jacket began to slip from her grasp, beneath her left elbow. Cursing, she unclasped her hands and s.n.a.t.c.hed at its sleeve; only for two, three, then four more to follow it on to the ground. With a small scream of rage, she threw down the rest.

The afternoon, like so many before it, had been spent making requests for supplies in the French camps. Madeleine was required to take centre stage during these expeditions, as Annabel's broken French and somewhat brusque, impatient bargaining style had proved less than effective at securing the sympathetic cooperation of Great Britain's Gallic allies. It was trying work, the French officers seeming to delight in a chance to deliver lengthy lectures on the shameful state of the British forces. How much more of their part of the line, she was asked repeatedly, would they cede to French control? How was it that the Turksthe Turks Turks!had managed to maintain a more effective fighting force? Did they realise that were it not for the deficiencies of Britain, Sebastopol would have fallen months ago, and they would all be at liberty to return home?

These officers also made it clear that they regarded her, a lady who had exchanged glorious France for miserable England, with some disdain. This could quickly be dismissed; a single pretty sob, or a plea made in the correct att.i.tude of beautiful misery, had the prideful fools scrabbling on their knees, promising whatever they could in an effort to restore her spirits. But performing such expert manipulations quickly became wearying. At that moment, as she stood crossly beside the pile of discarded jackets in the winter twilight, Madeleine wanted only to return to her bed. She knew, however, that the tireless Annabel would have other plans for her, and that she would be on her feet until long after nightfall.

Madeleine hugged herself, clamping her aching hands in her armpits. Never before had she known such cold. It seemed to seep inside her, through her, chilling the marrow of her bones, frosting over her muscles and organs, making her groan and judder like an old railway carriage. She let out a shivering sigh as she stamped her feet against the iron earth.

At the head of the Worontzov road, quite close to where she had stopped, a heavy cart was being loaded with the sick and wounded. It was a French cart, with French drivers, but all the casualties were British, being taken down from the plateau to the port of Balaclava, some five miles distantyet another demonstration, she realised, of the dependence about which she had heard so much that day. Civilian doctors and orderlies attended to the worst cases, lifting up stretchers and dressing injuries. One of these men had noticed her, and now stood staring. Cautiously, she returned his gaze. It was Richard's junior, Mr Kitson.

The Russian winter had gnawed away at the correspondent, as it had at everyone on the campaign. His heavy coat was missing a lapel, and a long tear across the shoulder had been but crudely fixed with ragged, uneven st.i.tches. The beard that snaked out through his upturned collar was bunched into knotted, uncombed clumps. He had none of the defeated exhaustion that dogged the fighting men, however. After addressing the cart's driver in competent, efficient French, he came over to her, a thin smile on his face.

'Why, Mrs Boyce,' he said rather inscrutably, touching the bent brim of his cap. 'Imagine meeting you like this, Madame Madame.'

Madeleine was uncertain how to respond. They had not so much as exchanged a word since the day she had landed. The impression she had gleaned from Richard's few remarks about his reporting team was that it no longer existed, properly speaking. His talk now was almost entirely of his own endeavours. Deciding nonetheless upon wary cordiality, she returned Mr Kitson's greeting.

He pointed towards the jackets. 'These are yours, I a.s.sume?'

Madeleine nodded. The wool, against the dark, frozen ground, was the colour of sour cream. 'Mouton jackets, they are calledsheepskin, you see, with the wool left on?' jackets, they are calledsheepskin, you see, with the wool left on?'

'Yes, I have seen the French wearing them. They will be most welcome among our own troops. We remain chronically ill-equipped on that front since the sinking of the Prince Prince last November.' His voice grew strained. 'Forty thousand winter uniforms and boots, everything that is now needed the most, lost to the waters of Balaclava harbour.' Someone over in the cart moaned loudly, and called out an unintelligible word. Mr Kitson turned towards her. 'I must say that it warms my heart, last November.' His voice grew strained. 'Forty thousand winter uniforms and boots, everything that is now needed the most, lost to the waters of Balaclava harbour.' Someone over in the cart moaned loudly, and called out an unintelligible word. Mr Kitson turned towards her. 'I must say that it warms my heart, Madame Madame, to see you engaged so selflessly, and in such difficult conditions.'

Madeleine nodded again, hardly hearing this. She wanted desperately to ask him about Richardif he happened to know where he was, despite the rift that had occurred between them. But this, she knew, would be far too brazen. 'Youyou are helping with the injured, Mr Kitson?'

'I do what I can, Mrs Boyce, with the little knowledge I have managed to glean in the past few months,' he replied, rubbing his hands together. Madeleine noticed that his gloves, once grey, were almost entirely covered with bloodstains, their hues ranging from mola.s.ses to bleached orange. 'It was not my original role here, of course, but I find-'

He was interrupted by the arrival of Annabel, bearing a consignment of Mouton Mouton jackets almost twice as large as that which had overwhelmed Madeleine. After setting down this mighty load, and shooting a reproving look at her friend for delaying their mission of mercy, she proceeded to engage Mr Kitson in cheerful conversation. Madeleine had soon learned that Annabel saw people in a very simple manner, as worthy either of absolute approval or utter condemnation. It was as if the world appeared to her as it would on the Day of Judgement, when mankind would be divided neatly into the blessed and the d.a.m.ned. Mr Kitson, it seemed, had managed to win himself a place in the exalted ranks of the former. jackets almost twice as large as that which had overwhelmed Madeleine. After setting down this mighty load, and shooting a reproving look at her friend for delaying their mission of mercy, she proceeded to engage Mr Kitson in cheerful conversation. Madeleine had soon learned that Annabel saw people in a very simple manner, as worthy either of absolute approval or utter condemnation. It was as if the world appeared to her as it would on the Day of Judgement, when mankind would be divided neatly into the blessed and the d.a.m.ned. Mr Kitson, it seemed, had managed to win himself a place in the exalted ranks of the former.

Annabel declared that she had not spoken with him since before Christmas; had he managed to mark it in any way? He admitted that he had not. Annabel was forgiving, conceding that their current situation did not lend itself to pious celebration. She said that she had seen him on the docks, working as a medical orderlybinding wounds and administering medicines, filling in the endless forms, consoling the living and carrying the bodies of the dead. As she recounted this honourable list of duties, Annabel's face positively shone with admiration, whilst Mr Kitson murmured modest deflections of her praise.

Madeleine began to grow impatient. She wondered how she might intervene, and direct the conversation towards the Courier Courier and its brave senior correspondent. Then, quite unexpectedly, Annabel did this for her. and its brave senior correspondent. Then, quite unexpectedly, Annabel did this for her.

'And what of your colleagues, sir?' she inquired, looking around. 'What of Mr Cracknell? He is not here with you, I take it?' Her tone now had a hard, critical note to it, indicating that the discussion had moved to one of the d.a.m.ned.

Mr Kitson shook his head. 'Mr Cracknell and I have not worked together for a number of weeks. I believe he is fully occupied with the composition of his Courier Courier reports.' reports.'

Annabel pulled a grim, knowing face, and made an acid remark about Mr Cracknell's mounting fame.

It upset Madeleine to hear her lover talked about in this caustic manner. She wanted to leap to his defence, to say that they did not understand the n.o.bility, the necessity of his labourthe labour that was increasingly keeping them apart. As her trials increased, so did her need for Richard. He was her consolation, her sole comfort in that hopeless, frozen land. She would finish a long, difficult day with Annabel and then wait at her window for his signal. More and more, though, it did not come. The explanation given was always the same: his latest report, the one that was going to finally bring justice to the British Army and demolish its unworthy commanders, her husband included. They had not managed to meet for over a week. An acute anxiety was building up inside her. She felt as if there was something urgent she had to say or do, or somewhere else she had to be; but she was petrified, unable to act.

'How about Mr Styles, your young ill.u.s.trator?' Annabel asked next. 'Has he managed to bring that temper of his under control?'

Mr Kitson's expression darkened. 'I cannot say, madam, much to my chagrin. My own feeling was that he was becoming increasingly troubled, and should be recalled to England. I was overruled, howeverquite comprehensively. The Courier' Courier's editor simply did not believe that any man could suffer in war without having been struck by a bullet or run through with a bayonet.'

'Did this cause your break with Mr Cracknell, sir?'

'Not entirely. But it is true that my editor was not heeding me, my senior was not heeding me and Mr Styles himself certainly was not heeding me. I did start to wonder why I should supply the Courier Courier with my views on the war when my views on the wellbeing of my colleagues were being so roundly ignored.' He paused. 'Do forgive me. I am sounding rather querulous.' with my views on the war when my views on the wellbeing of my colleagues were being so roundly ignored.' He paused. 'Do forgive me. I am sounding rather querulous.'

Annabel shrugged. 'Your position sounds perfectly just, Mr Kitson, in my opinion. And you have taken on good work indeed.'

There was a piercing whistle from the cartload of casualties.

'Speaking of which, I must be off,' he said apologetically, lifting his cap and exposing a nest of flattened, overgrown hair. 'Most pleasant to see you both. I hope we will meet again soon.'

Madeleine's eyes followed him as he swung himself up on to the cart, which had already started to trundle down the Worontzov road to Balaclava. Her despondency seemed to drench her, leaving her heart heavy and cold. She wanted to sit down; she wanted to be with Richard; she wanted to be warm warm.

'Come, my pet,' said Annabel with stout vigour, gathering up her Mouton Mouton jackets. 'We have to take these to the emplacements on Chapman's Hill. There are at least two more loads to be carried before tea.' jackets. 'We have to take these to the emplacements on Chapman's Hill. There are at least two more loads to be carried before tea.'

Madeleine stared down balefully at the formless woolly pile beside her, filled with a sudden hatred for Annabel and her endless, arduous tasks.

'"Almighty G.o.d is able to make all grace abound to you,"' her companion intoned, heaving her load up into the air, '"so that you will abound in every good work that you will abound in every good work."'

2.

Kitson left the Middle Ravine, the rocky, cannon-ball strewn corridor that formed the main route between the plateau and the siege-works, and paused beneath a lantern to give a quick account of his errand to an exhausted-looking watch captain. He had said no more than five words before he was waved on indifferently into the trenches of the first parallel.

It was almost ten o'clock. A bright moon hung overhead, framed by the two sides of the trench, casting a silver light over the icy, waterlogged path before him. Things seemed quiet that night, for the most part. There was the occasional patter of rifle fire from the French lines, off to the right, but the artillery pieces of both sides stood unfired. Kitson had never been this far forwardthis close to Sebastopol, the object of the siege. The prevailing mood in the network of deep, fetid ditches that formed the mainstay of the British a.s.sault, however, was one of desolate apathy rather than resilience and determination. Those posted there were gaunt and bearded, their once-fine uniforms now little more than rags that, in many cases, failed even to cover their flesh sufficiently, let alone protect it from the cold. Kitson could feel icicles gathering in his own beard, yet he saw privates with nothing at all on their feet. The bitter temperature seemed to compel constant activitythese soldiers, however, were almost motionless apart from their shivering. Hunched or even p.r.o.ne in water several inches deep, most paid him no attention as he pa.s.sed; but some looked up, following his progress with empty eyes, making him feel profoundly guilty for his own thick goatskin coat and seaman's boots.

Kitson focused upon his errand. It was a typically Crimean scenario, the kind that occurred dozens of times a week in Balaclava alone. He had been toiling on the docks as usual. The last of the previous night's sick had just been dispatched, either to the General Hospital just outside town or for transit to Scutari, when a clerk from the harbourmaster's office had appeared. Somewhat embarra.s.sed, this man had announced that an officer from the Royal Engineers, a Major Nicholson, was required at the harbour early the next morning to a.s.sist with a civilian-led project of high importance. Nicholson was believed to be in the Forward Attack, overseeing the construction of the advance parallel, and no one could be found to go and fetch him. All the soldiers in Balaclava had just come down from the plateau, and flatly refused to trek back up to it again; and everybody else seemed suddenly to have pressing duties that prevented them from venturing from the town. They were his last hope.

Doctor G.o.dwin, the surgeon supervising the docks, had turned wearily to Kitson and asked if he would consider undertaking this mission as a personal favour to himit was very much in their interests to stay on the right side of the harbourmaster. Kitson had inquired about the nature of the project, but the clerk knew only that it was intended to relieve the trials of the fighting men. Resigning himself to another sleepless night, he had agreed.

After a few minutes the trench Kitson was following led him to a rifle pit. It was covered with what looked like horse skins and reinforced with sandbags and wooden pickets. Those who manned it were laid out, insensible, their guns by their sides; he had to repeat his greeting several times before eliciting a response. Groggily, the soldiers informed him that he was now in the third parallel, and that the officer he sought was somewhere up ahead. He moved back out into the trench, stepping around a large puddle and rounding a corner. Up in front of him now was one of the forward batteries, built into a large bank of stone and bolstered with deep earthworks, standing about ten feet above the parallel. A narrow rope ladder had been thrown down its side, leading to a ledge that had been carved into the main rampart. Kitson climbed the ladder and pulled himself on to it; and a second later was looking out over the siege of Sebastopol.

There was a white frost that night, setting a crisp sh.e.l.l over much of the landscape. The system of trenches looked like an ugly act of defacement, a series of jagged cuts into a long slope of smooth silver. Kitson could see the string of squat forts that a.s.serted the Allied line, between which these trenches ran, and how they were matched, echoed almost, by the Russian positions around the outer suburbs of their city. Opposite the battery on which he stood, across three or four hundred yards of unclaimed ground, lay an expansive enemy fort, a crenulated block of reinforced earth that bristled with artillery. The night was so clear that one could even see the sentries who were patrolling along its crude ramparts. To its rear, in amongst acres of ruined buildings, the orange flickering points of hundreds of torches revealed vast teams of labourers enlarging and improving what was already there, and commencing new structures. As he surveyed all of this, Kitson thought that there could be no possibility of the British Army prevailing in a frontal a.s.sault on such a positionnot in its current condition. Small wonder that they had arrived at such a dreadful stalemate.

Past the Russian defences lay the city itself. Its main streets were barricaded and filled with debris, but otherwise it seemed oddly normal. Few of its structures appeared in any way dilapidated or damaged. Their moonlit roofs formed an undulating mosaic of silver, pale blue and white, broken only by the bulbous minarets of Orthodox churches. Lights shone at windows and moved in the lanes below them; in greater numbers, perhaps, than one might expect to see in peacetime, but hardly enough to suggest a population in some terrible state of agitation or upheaval. The waters of the port itself were perfectly still, reflecting the disc of the moon, the very essence of tranquillity.

Kitson stepped down into the battery. It was long, holding in excess of twenty cannon. Much of it was swathed in darkness, but men could be seen shuffling in between the guns. He noticed a few of them, officers swaddled in the thick winter clothes denied to their men, exchanging a dour joke; and not for the first time since coming up to the plateau, he became worried that Cracknell might be among them, shaking hands, pa.s.sing out cigarettes and gathering testimonies.

They had not spoken since well before Christmas. Kitson knew exactly how a reunion would go. There would be accusations and counter-accusations of increasing acrimony, culminating in him being harshly denounced as a deserter. He frequently saw people reading the Courier Courier in Balaclava, and witnessed the savage arguments Cracknell's pieces provoked amongst both soldiers and civilians. They were now universally regarded as the work of one person only: the in Balaclava, and witnessed the savage arguments Cracknell's pieces provoked amongst both soldiers and civilians. They were now universally regarded as the work of one person only: the Courier' Courier's man in the camps before Sebastopol. Kitson had come to believe that he had been quietly removed from the magazine's roster. He did not care enough even to confirm this. His experiences in Balaclava that winter had shown him that he could no longer react to the misery of others merely with the composition of a righteous paragraph.

The Courier Courier reports themselves were difficult for him to read. It was disconcerting to see justifiable outrage at the misconduct of the war being mixed with Cracknell's biting vindictiveness towards those individuals he believed needed punishingwho often happened to be those who had also slighted or dismissed him. Boyce, of course, featured as regularly as Cracknell could work him in. To Kitson, this particular battle had been well and truly lost in the hut of Major-General Codrington. Cracknell fought on regardless, though, succeeding only in polarising opinion and winning the villain as many new supporters as detractors. reports themselves were difficult for him to read. It was disconcerting to see justifiable outrage at the misconduct of the war being mixed with Cracknell's biting vindictiveness towards those individuals he believed needed punishingwho often happened to be those who had also slighted or dismissed him. Boyce, of course, featured as regularly as Cracknell could work him in. To Kitson, this particular battle had been well and truly lost in the hut of Major-General Codrington. Cracknell fought on regardless, though, succeeding only in polarising opinion and winning the villain as many new supporters as detractors.

As he walked through along the battery, Kitson discovered to his considerable relief that the correspondent was not there after all. It was unsurprising, really; the front was huge, and filled with many thousands of men. The chances of them encountering one another were slight. He approached the artillery officers and inquired after Major Nicholson.

A minute later Kitson started into the advance parallel. It zig-zagged madly from the base of the forward battery towards the Russian fortifications, feeling out the line of the next parallel proper, running a good fifty feet beyond the main British position. Out here, as treating casualties in Balaclava had shown him all too clearly, the danger posed by sharpshooters was acute. He pressed himself against the side of the trench, in the hope that it would afford him some cover, and moved gingerly along it. The advance parallel was not as well worked as the others, nor as deep, its sides crumbling wetly to a floor no more than five feet below ground level. There were no soldiers at all in the length of the trench, and at first Kitson had thought it unmanned; but then he reached a rifle pit, its canvas cover peppered with musket-ball holes, and heard voices grumbling in its dark recesses.

He listened out for the sound of engineers at workthe clang of hammers, the sc.r.a.pe of shovels being pushed into earthyet was greeted only by a stagnant hush. Carrying on along the parallel, he caught an unexpected noise beneath the squelching of his footsteps; a faint scratching that was both familiar and out of place. It was a pencil, moving rapidly across paper. This was not someone writing, though. The strokes were too long, too rhythmic. This was the sound of drawing.

Kitson edged along another few yards, around an acute corner; and there, sitting with his back against the trench wall, was Robert Styles. Swathed in the a.s.semblage of the worn, ill-fitting garments that served so many as winter clothing, he was now heavily bearded, his cheeks hollow with malnourishment. His eyes were hidden in shadow beneath the brim of a fur-lined cap.

Styles was sketching away furiously in a small book, the open page angled to catch the moonlight. Before him, in a puddle, lay a dead, half-naked private, his knees drawn up to his chest in a final spasm. It was not clear whether this soldier's uniform had been incomplete when he died, or if parts of it had subsequently been scavenged by his comrades. His grey face was partly submerged in the puddle, which was freezing over, the ice reaching inside his open mouth; his beard glittered with hundreds of frozen droplets. And his minie was under Styles' arm, the stock resting on the ground beside him, the barrel leaning against his shoulder.

Kitson stifled his unease. 'Styles? Areare you all right, my friend?' he asked gently.

The ill.u.s.trator did not answer, or even look up from his work. Slowly, Kitson sat down next to him; he noticed without surprise that the drawing was a detailed depiction of the expired soldier. The pencil began to move more frantically, scoring the paper with thick black lines, defacing what was already there. Kitson reached over and stopped Styles' bony hand, pressing it flat upon the page. The ill.u.s.trator let out a groaning sigh and slumped forward as if cut down from the wall. They remained in silence for a moment. A tear patted softly against the drawing, followed by several more. Kitson put his arm around Styles' shoulders. The joints beneath his thin coat were sharp and hard. There is nothing left of him, Kitson thought; I am now the heavier man.

Suddenly, Styles coughed, gagging as if he was about to be sick; and then the stream of words began. 'I cannot stop thinking of it, Kitson, I cannot stop thinking about the cave. It will not let me be, II see it all day, then it haunts my b.l.o.o.d.y dreams dreams as well. It will not let me be. I think of the rock in my hand, andand that sound, and the way it as well. It will not let me be. I think of the rock in my hand, andand that sound, and the way it felt felt, and dear G.o.d it will not let me be it will not let me be.'