The Rose of Sebastopol (30 page)

Then at last, an hour after dawn, an engine approached and the poultry set up a frantic clamor as a steamer came alongside. Soon the boat quaked with the stamp of official feet. I dressed, seized my bonnet, shawl, and a reticule containing our documents and money, and went up on deck where a light dew had made the boards slippery and the Crimean coast looked benign under a milky sky. The harbormaster, heavily bearded but otherwise civilized, had come aboard, brandishing a sheaf of papers.

After a couple of hours of whisker-stroking, parading about, and peering into crates, we were at last permitted to steam forward again in what seemed to be a collision course for the coast. Then I saw a gap in the cliffs so narrow that we had to wait while another boat, a yacht, had edged out towards us and slipped by, presumably on her way back to Constantinople, before a couple of tugs took up the slack ropes and we slipped between walls of rock into Balaklava Harbor.

“Good Lord,” said Nora, “what a place. It’s no bigger than your back garden in Clapham.”

We were in a stretch of water half the width of the Thames, hemmed in on three sides by steep hills, on a fourth by a cluster of buildings, and so full of ships that it was impossible to disentangle one mast from another. I had never seen anywhere more crowded or enclosed except perhaps The Strand at nine on a weekday morning. We had sailed from bright sunlight into deep shade, and there was a din of human voices, dogs, horses, wheels, machinery, and again, in the distance, the heart-stopping thunder of cannon fire.

I behaved as my mother would have done in similar circumstances—that is, almost paralyzed with fear and without an idea in her head what to do next, I sat in my cabin with Nora and got out a notebook and pen. Then I wrote the following, in my most laboriously neat hand-writing:
June 3, 1855. The
Royal Albert
. Balaklava Harbor. Ten o’clock in the morning.

And under that the word
Plan.

“Well? ” I said to Nora. “What shall I put? ”

“We must ask for Rosa.”

“Whom shall we ask? ”

“Everybody. In all the public places. And in the hospitals, of course.”

“But it seems likely that she left the hospitals.”

“I would not have thought that a lady on her own, with hair the color of Rosa’s, would go unnoticed here or anywhere for long.”

So I wrote:
Item One. Ask for Rosa in stores and public places in Balaklava.

Item Two. Ask in hospitals for Rosa
.

Item Three
.

“The nun at Skutari said she may have gone among the troops,” I said. “And Henry met her immediately after a battle.”

“Then we too must go among the troops.”

“And there’s Max Stukeley,” said Nora. “He may know where she is.”

“Mother wrote to him. He never replied.”

“Nevertheless.”

“I don’t know him well enough to approach him.”

“I do. There’s no need to look at me like that. I was at Stukeley for eight years, remember.”

A
s the
Royal Albert
was not due to sail back
to Constantinople for a week or so, we were to use her as lodgings. The intention was that we would find Rosa quickly and leave with our ship.

I dressed in my third-best gown, hung my reticule over one arm, and with my other hand held an open parasol to protect myself from the blistering sunshine. Even Nora, who wore a shapeless bonnet with a deep brim, approved of this arrangement. She said that we were so unused to the conditions that it was likely we’d get sunstroke if we weren’t careful.

My first thought on stepping onto Russian soil was of Henry, who had stood on these same paving stones and set sail from this same cramped harbor with shiploads of wounded men. But it was hard to equate this bustling place with the muddy pest-hole described in his letters, and the very thought of Henry, which led inevitably to the memory of that dreadful episode in the Narni bedroom, made me wretched.

In any case, I realized that I was attracting a great deal of unwanted attention. Nobody else held a parasol or wore cream muslin, flounced and beribboned over half a dozen petticoats; in fact, as far as I could tell, nobody else except Nora was female. Fortunately the captain had supplied us with an escort, who was to take us to someone in authority, but though men fell back on either side as we passed, nobody worried about gawping at me, particularly foreigners whose filthy feet and knees were visible to me from beneath the fringed shelter of my parasol.

Eventually we came to a building which might once have been the house of a wealthier townsperson but had been allowed to fall into a state of near ruin and then roughly rebuilt. Shutters were missing, stucco had flaked away, and the roof was patched. Soldiers were hanging about in the hall and when an officer came running down the stairs he gaped and then sent us to a waiting room in which papers flooded every surface and burst from files and boxes. After a while it grew so hot that I leant against a heap and twirled the handle of my parasol. Nora went to the window but there was no view except of a yard filled with filth and rubble. Footsteps clumped up and down the stairs, men’s voices called, mostly jocular and well-spoken, some harassed or rough, and the business of the harbor rattled and clanged outside.

At last we were shown into a little office with a crooked desk and notice boards covered in maps scribbled over with notes, lists, and information about ships, masters, regiments, and purveyors. The smell of blocked drains was very bad but otherwise it was a reassuring enough place, because it reminded me of Father’s study. The official behind the desk was tall and thin with a long face and mournful eyes, like a well-intentioned mongrel, though his skin had an unhealthy gray tinge and his moustache drooped sadly at either end. He took one look at me and said under his breath, though distinctly enough for me to hear: “Jesus Christ, what will they send me next? ”

I was so offended that I plumped down on a rickety chair, while he sighed, took a clean sheet of paper, dipped his pen, and prepared to write. “I’m Lieutenant Barnabus. In charge of arrivals. Your name, madam?”

I gave him my name and Nora’s.

“How did you get here? ”

“On the
Royal Albert
.”

He made a note. “I will give your captain a reprimand. I assume you paid him an immense sum. Well, I won’t have it. We can’t allow just anyone to sail in and out of Balaklava as if it were Broadstairs.”

“I am looking for my cousin, Rosa Barr. She came out here to nurse and has gone missing.”

Barnabus’s posture did not change but I was certain that his eyes widened a fraction. “Rosa Barr, you say? ”

“Miss Rosa Barr. Have you heard of her?”

“Since when do you think she’s been missing?”

“We last heard from her at the beginning of February. Nothing since.”

He scribbled energetically in his notebook. “Well, it’s no use asking me. I’m new here.”

“You’ve heard nothing of her then? ”

“I arrived in April. But surely a simple telegraph from London would have sufficed for your enquiries. What is the point of coming all this way and putting yourself in danger? Who is your father? I’m amazed at him for allowing this.” He peered at me. “I assume your father knows your whereabouts.”

“Well, of course my movements have not been certain . . .”

“But this is absurd. I can’t be doing this. People turning up here whenever they feel like it. Young ladies with umbrellas. Have you any idea of the dangers? Miss Nightingale couldn’t stand it even. Crossed the Black Sea, was here five minutes, and took sick with Crimean fever. Can you imagine the fuss if she’d died? We have enough sickness on our hands without you women turning up.”

“I’m not sick.”

“You will be. Look at you. A puff of wind will blow you away, let alone a swig of bad water. There’s nowhere for you to stay and no transport for you. All our energies should be directed against the Russians and instead I have to nanny hordes of women who drop in all sides. I suggest you get straight back to your ship and sit tight until it sets sail again. In fact, I’ll put you aboard the next sailing. How’s that? Get you back to Constantinople or some other safe port in double-quick time. And we’ll send a nice telegram to your mama, let her know where you are, and before you know it you’ll be home. Now, what’s your address in England? ”

At which point Nora said in her flat voice: “Max Stukeley.”

Barnabus pushed back his chair. “I beg your pardon.”

“We are also here because we were summoned by Captain Stukeley. I assume you’ve heard of him.”

“Of course. Whatever does he want you for?”

“How will we know, until we see him? You see, he is Miss Lingwood’s cousin and Rosa Barr, the woman we have come to find, is his stepsister.”

“Stepsister. I see. Yes, of course. But officers, even Stukeley, can’t just invite people out here. Why would he do such a thing?” He stared at me again. “Are you sure you’re related? It’s not some kind of . . . You’re not in some sort of liaison...”

I was too appalled by Nora’s foolish lie to give him an answer.
Summoned by
Max Stukeley indeed.

Nora said: “Maybe you’d send for him, so we could talk to him.”

“Why didn’t you mention your connection with Stukeley at first?”

“Miss Lingwood is naturally most concerned about her other cousin, Rosa. She’s the one uppermost on her mind.”

“Well, I suppose I could have a message sent up to Stukeley if that’s your wish though it would take upwards of a day, there and back.”

“And in the meantime,” said Nora, “perhaps we might pay a visit to a hospital.”

“Under no circumstances. Absolutely not. No. I’ve made an order. No more visitors. Absolutely. Since the business with Miss Nightingale we don’t allow anyone up there who’s new to the Crimea.”

“Is Miss Nightingale in Balaklava now? Might we see her?”

“Her ship set sail this morning.” His expression was a little too triumphant for my liking. “I believe she’s going back to some place in the hills above Constantinople where she can convalesce. Now I’m going to have you returned to the ship where you will stay until I send word. And in the meantime I’ll arrange a passage for you as soon as possible. I’ve got it all here in my notes.”

In a matter of minutes Nora and I had been whisked back to our cabin, where an envelope awaited me addressed to “Miss Lingwood, the lady passenger aboard the
Royal Albert
” and containing an invitation to call on a Lady Mendlesham-Connors, aboard the yacht
Principle
. Apparently despite—or perhaps as an explanation for—the fulminations of Lieutenant Barnabus, I was not the only female in Balaklava Harbor. Nevertheless, I decided not to accept the unknown lady’s hospitality, because the last thing I wanted was to become a source of gossip.

Nora disagreed: “I’ve said you need to get among people and talk to them if you’re intent on finding Rosa. Meanwhile I could make myself pleasant with the maid, who’ll always know far more than her mistress.”

“Lady Mendlesham-Connors might be acquainted with Mrs. Hardcastle. She’ll think it’s very strange that I’m here. It’s bad enough that Barnabus will have telegraphed London by now. And incidentally, Nora, I should prefer it if you allowed me to conduct conversations...”

“You must write home, posthaste. Tell them you’re doing fine and will be back soon. You don’t want them following you out here.”

“It would only be Father. Mother couldn’t leave Isabella.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Lady Isabella Stukeley to insist on being brought on a cruise down here. She’d say t’would do her heart a power of good to be in the sea air.”

It was possible, given the glint in her eye, that Nora was making a joke. “Then you’d have to go back to your old job of nursemaid, Nora. How would that be?”

“I think now I’d rather put my head in a cannon’s mouth.”

That night I wrote a letter to my parents, in which I gave them my profound apologies for taking such a momentous step without their permission and begging them not to worry. Henry had been too ill and too insistent to resist; there could be little doubt, in fact, that I was answering the wish of a dying man, and his frantic concern for Rosa, which we all shared, had been an additional spur.

It was a letter that took many drafts, and after it was done I lay on my bunk, in a now-familiar posture of rigid unease, and listened to the clinking of masts and voices on shore. I wouldn’t let Nora open the porthole, because a place as hot and enclosed as Balaklava must surely be a breeding ground for cholera. In the distance was the ker-boom, boom of guns firing, and sometimes the rattle of smaller arms, perhaps the minié rifles as described in my War Album. Sometimes the ship swayed and knocked against its neighbor, sometimes there was drunken shouting.
Like Broadstairs
, Barnabus had said. If only; sun on the sand, damp petticoats, a fistful of seashells. Father’s legs stretched out as he snoozed behind a newspaper, Mother with a veil over her bonnet to protect her complexion from the sun, the only time I saw her read a book.