The Rose of Sebastopol (39 page)

M
y patient ’s condition began to improve.
One morning when I had changed her bed and was tucking the folded edge of the top sheet under the mattress Nora said: “Now what are you fussing with that for?”

“Nora.” I was so relieved I almost kissed her. “Are you really awake? Do you know where we are?”

“So. You stayed.”

“I’m sorry you have been ill, Nora.”

“And what news have you of Rosa?”

“Not much, except that she disappeared. She seems to have met up with Dr. Thewell and then never come back. Or so Captain Stukeley says. He was here to see you, by the way.”

This news actually made her smile. “I thought that was a dream. And what had he to say for himself?”

“He’s very angry that we came. He says there’s no point in us staying because he’s already searched for Rosa and not found her.”

She gave a deep sigh. “You should not be wasting time with me. You should be looking for her.”

Lieutenant Newman was waiting outside the hut with a bundle of mending. “Captain Stukeley said I wasn’t to bother the wives in the camp. He said you were looking about for a bit of extra work and that I should come and keep you company.”

I did not point out the heap of sheets, brought to me that morning by Mrs. Whitehead, who’d discovered that the rats had got into the linen store and chewed the corners of a neatly folded pile. Instead I took his clothes and threaded my needle. He wouldn’t sit down but stood to attention, head on one side, shuffling closer and closer until he was actually hanging over me. “Something is going on, Miss Lingwood. You’ll see. Any moment it will flare up again. A week or so ago I would have said we’d just be hanging about forever but I was wrong. That same night after you rode up to our camp the French took the Mamelon and us the Quarries so it was a great step. Only a matter of days now and in we go again. The Malakov will be next.”

“How did this jacket get in such a state, Lieutenant Newman?”

“Well, you know. The Quarries was a bad affair. My first bit of fighting under real fire, actually.”

His head sank on his long neck. “But you survived,” I said, taking his cap, which was twisted in his fingers, and straightening it out for him.

“I survived. That’s it. So I did. Not very creditably. We had to run forward under the Russian guns into their rifle pits. They were waiting for us, because they knew all our moves before we made them. My men are mostly twice my age but I had to give them orders. What do I know? I stood with my arm up, screaming, and they rushed past me. I watched them fall and I didn’t move. Just couldn’t make the old legs work.”

His top teeth bit into his thick lower lip and released it, again and again, until I said: “So what happened next?”

“In the end I followed them. But only after the Quarries had been taken. I was staggering about over Russian bodies piled up inside. Once you were in those pits there was no easy way out. Our job was to turn the Russian guns so they were broken or facing back at the enemy. But the Russkies came at us again. You’re inside these pits and you see these columns hurling themselves towards you and your hand’s shaking and you can feel the wind against your face as the grapeshot comes at you. I think I just stood there with my bayonet and waited for a Russian to run up against me but in the end they turned tail. I don’t know that I fired a shot.”

I worked away, trying to find some word of comfort.

“So next it will be the Malakov,” he said, “which will be down to the French, because we don’t have the numbers, but once they’ve got it, we will rush in and take the Great Redan and then the way to Sebastopol, at least the south side, will be wide-open.”

“You make it sound very straightforward. If it’s so easy, why haven’t the allies gone in before now?”

“Good question. One or two snags, Miss Lingwood.” He crouched down beside me so that his shoulder was pressed against my knee as if he were an over-friendly Labrador rather than an officer, and drew a map in the dusty earth with the end of his riding whip. “The Great Redan is a bit of a beast, V shape, like this, with the point facing us, just about bristling with guns. And look, there’s a hundred yards or so of open ground to cross between our trenches, here, and the Redan. And on the way there’s the abatis, which is like a thick fence made of brushwood and such, and beyond that a ditch.”

This was familiar territory to me: like when Father used to stand me in front of his tilted drawing board while he brandished his pointer and showed me the latest plan, a street of houses drawn to scale, front and rear elevation, bird’s-eye view, and then the bit I liked best, a section through the earth showing layers of London clay, pipes, rock, and underground streams.

“Last week,” said Newman, “I watched the French when they ran at the Mamelon and by God the ones in front fell like skittles.”

I dared another glance into his wet blue eyes and I knew that if I reached out my hand so much as half an inch his face would drop against my bosom and he would weep like a child. “Perhaps it won’t be you. Perhaps your company won’t be asked to go in.”

“It will be us. I’m sure of that. It’s bound to be us. They believe in Stukeley, you see. And where he goes, we follow. Which reminds me, Captain Stukeley says to tell you that he’ll be visiting Mrs. McCormack again this evening, if convenient.”

So then of course I had to tidy Nora’s bed, wash her face, and bring her a clean cap—which was just as well, because as it turned out Max had also made a considerable effort. His hair and moustache had been trimmed and his dark eyes restored to their usual brilliance. A gaggle of women followed him, presumably to glimpse his broad shoulders and long legs.

He nodded to me very formally—“Miss Lingwood”—then, at the sight of Nora propped up on the pillows, his face broke into a delighted grin. “Well, Nora McCormack, have you come back from the dead to be a nuisance to me at last?”

“I have, Max Stukeley.”

He gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek, pulled up a chair, and placed a basket on the bed beside her. Like Little Red Riding Hood, I thought.

“Now then,” said Max, “I’ve been talking to Mrs. Seacole at the British Hotel about you and this is what she’s sent. Chicken broth and rice pudding. Very light on the stomach and just the thing to get you out of this bed double quick. So you eat these up like a good girl.”

“Don’t you be calling me a good girl.”

“I’ll be calling you what I like. You are a wicked old woman to have come out here and got yourself ill like this. Why did you do it?” They were so absorbed in each other that they didn’t notice me leave the hut.

“Why do you think? I can’t have Rosa lost and not go looking for her.”

“Don’t you trust me to do my best for her, Nora?”

“I believe you have other business to attend to. Besides, I envied you both. I wanted to see what was going on.”

“Ah, now that’s more like it. Now we’re getting closer to the truth.” He adopted an absurdly exaggerated version of her accent: “Well, I’m telling you, Nora McCormack, that you’ll discover your County Sligo tales have met their match with the Russian prisoners. If you’re a good girl and keep quiet I’ll be telling you one of their stories.” He dropped his voice. “I’ve heard them speak of a
rusalka
, the spirit of a drowned girl who haunts the river. At night she’ll try and lure us handsome young men into the water with promises of eternal happiness. And then in the day she’ll disguise herself as a snake and sleep in a tree.”

“Well, I doubt she’d have any trouble getting the whole of this foolish army to go prancing after her and drowning theirselves.”

“Ah, now then, but these Russians are less unforgiving than you Irish. If a man wishes to come out of the water, he has only to make the sign of the cross and he can return home.”

“And how would an irreligious pagan like you know how to make the sign of the cross? Nonetheless, I should like to meet these Russians and learn some new stories.”

“Hurry up and get well, then, Nora McCormack, and I’ll take you up to the camp.”

“Well now, Max Stukeley, how would I talk to a Russian when I’ve none of their language?”

“Well now, Nora McCormack, it could be that our Russian enemy is not half as ignorant as we like to think, and that some can speak English better than our good selves. But, Nora, is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

His voice became so low and tender that I couldn’t hear him and to my annoyance I noticed that the sheet in my hands was spotted with blood from a pricked finger because I hadn’t been paying sufficient attention to my work.

DERBYSHIRE, 1844

 

 

 

T
he weather grew so warm
that Rosa and I had to retreat from the box hedge in search of deeper shade. “We need a secret place in the woods,” she said, “but I haven’t been able to find one.”

Everything in the extensive grounds at Stukeley was managed and manicured, even the woods, where the stream had been diverted to form a series of pools and gushing waterfalls amidst plantations of birches and oaks.
“Artful,”
said Rosa, “but not natural. I know which I’d prefer. I wonder if Max would help us build a shelter of some kind.”

I would rather not have involved Max, because he was so prickly and had such a disturbing effect on Rosa. However, now that she had the scheme in her head she and I spent the morning hunting for the ideal spot in the woods, then hung about in the stable yard waiting to pounce on him the minute his lessons were over.

By the end of an hour they had argued about the location of the projected den, or
arbor
, as it was now to be called, the best method of construction, and who should have use of the sharpest knife. In the end they fixed on a hollow above the stream, where two conveniently planted saplings could be tied together to form an arch. A frame was then made of interwoven branches, which would in turn be laced with bracken and leaves to make a canopy. At first I tried to help but being the least useful I had the bluntest tool and when I tried to wrench up a stalk of bracken it cut my hand.

Fortunately that morning Aunt Isabella’s rosewood side-table had been stained by a splash of water from an over-full vase. “What I need is one of your lovely little lace mats, Mariella, to cover it up. Your mother says you could run one up for me in a trice.” So I had a good excuse to sit against a tree trunk with my crochet and watch the others.

“This is going very well,” said Rosa after a while. “For once you seem to know what you’re doing.”

“Plenty of practice,” said Max. “I’ve camped out several nights at school. Can’t stand being cooped up in a dormitory.”

“Doesn’t anyone notice you’re not there?”

“People only want you to be where they expect when they actually look for you. The rest of the time you could be anywhere.”

“My father always wanted to know where I was,” said Rosa. “It was his only rule. And I bet Mariella’s never been anywhere forbidden in her life. Do you realize that she is the only one of us three who has a proper family, both a mother and a father—and even a perfect substitute brother called Henry.”

They stopped work for a moment and stared at me. Rosa’s face was flushed with the heat and her blue eyes were wistful and affectionate, but Max’s scrutiny was much more dispassionate, like the look I’d seen him give a pheasant that came crashing suddenly through the undergrowth. “Anyway,” he said, thrusting another frond of bracken into the web of branches, “I need practice at this type of thing. Father says I’m to join the army.”

“The
army
. No. Max. You can’t.”

“Actually I don’t mind the idea.”

She was a tousled sprite among the bracken. “You can’t join the army. What use will you be if you do that?”

“More than I am here.”

“I’ll never see you. You can’t abandon me.” For a moment she was intent on ripping a leaf apart. Then she said harshly: “I took Mariella to see the Fairbrothers.” Slash, slash went his knife, but he said nothing. “What will happen to them if you don’t even try to make things better?”

He didn’t answer but scrambled away up the slope to fetch more bracken while I crocheted furiously. Suddenly Rosa threw down her knife and cried: “Oh, what’s the point?” and went crashing down to the stream. For a few seconds her pale dress was visible through the trees, then she disappeared from view.

I was about to follow her but Max shouted: “No, stay here, I’ll go.” I heard his footsteps among last year’s fallen leaves before the quiet of the woods settled about me.

At first I was relieved that for once I wasn’t the one who had to comfort Rosa. It was so hot and their argument had been so fierce and momentous that I was glad of the peace. Besides, all afternoon I had been longing to try out the new arbor, so I picked up my crochet, crept down into the hollow, tucked myself inside, and sat cross-legged under the mesh of bracken. The woods around were filled with birdsong and I had an excellent view over the little dell, the flashing green leaves of new birches, and the clear water of the stream bubbling over the pebbles of its artificial bed.