The Rose of Sebastopol (42 page)

I crept about feeling like an impostor because until that moment I’d had no interest in books and he was treating me so respectfully that I was bewildered. Was this really the same Sir Matthew who sat stiffly at the end of the table, answered my mother and Isabella in monosyllables, ignored Rosa, needled Horatio, treated Max with contempt, and waved away unwanted dishes with the merest flick of his index finger?

I felt I ought to make at least a little effort in return, so I risked a question: “What do you keep in those cupboards and drawers?”

“Cupboards? Oh yes, of course. Well, I keep precious things in there. Some books are too expensive or rare to be exposed to the light at all. I’ll show you one day, maybe, when I’ve found out how much you really like books. And in the meantime, tell me, what do you think of our Derbyshire?”

“I like the hills,” I said.

He laughed again. “Just as well. We have a lot of hills. Anything else?”

“I like being with Rosa.”

His smile faded. “Rosa. Well, I suppose you are first cousins and nearly the same age. So what do the pair of you get up to?”

“Oh. Well. I sew.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed your sewing.” His eye fell on my neck. “Did you sew that lovely little collar?”

“Yes. I did.” Then I couldn’t resist adding, “And these cuffs.”

I held out my hands and he smiled kindly. “They’re very pretty. I don’t suppose Rosa sews.”

“She’s learning fast. And she teaches me other things.”

“What does she teach you?”

“She shows me things. We explore.”

“And have you explored in here with her?”

“Oh, no. We know the door is usually locked. And she says she’s forbidden the library.”

“I’m afraid I once found her eating a particularly juicy apple over a very rare book. That’s why she’s not allowed back until she’s grown up a little. But you can come anytime, provided you keep your visits to yourself. I don’t want any petty jealousy. I’d enjoy the company, if I’m at home, and I may even have time to teach you a bit of Latin, which would help you keep up with Rosa. What do you think of that idea?”

He returned the book to the shelf and I assumed that the interview was over. As I crept to the door he called me back. “Will you come again?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Tomorrow at this time, then.”

He was standing with his head bent, drumming his fingers on the table, and I felt sorry for him. He must be lonely if he wanted to pass the time by teaching me Latin. But as I raced away to the Italian Garden and crawled into the box hedge I worried about what had taken place. How could I keep my promise to Sir Matthew and not tell Rosa, from whom I had no secrets? But she hated Sir Matthew and would be scornful if she knew I’d agreed to be taught by him. In the end I decided that nothing would come of my trip to the library anyway—Sir Matthew was bound to forget about the arrangement by tomorrow and in the meantime my life would be much more peaceful if I kept quiet about it.

THE CRIMEA, 1855

 

 

 

L
ate in the morning the wind dropped
and the air grew still and hot. A boy came running up from the harbor and shouted that the French had taken the Malakov: it must be right because the tricolor had been seen waving above the parapet. But then a couple of Turks, who drove up with a cartload of lemons, said on the contrary, the French had been driven
back
from the Malakov, which the Russians had held with no difficulty at all.

My latest task was to sew buttons onto dozens of hospital nightshirts. Nora, who was dressed for the first time, sat beside me outside the hut with her head back, soaking up the sun. Only her lips moved, and I hoped she was praying for Max and Newman. Then I saw a messenger galloping up the track, so I flung down my sewing and went to the cook-house for news.

Wounded were coming. For some incomprehensible reason the British had rushed forward and attacked the Redan even though guns to their right were blazing at them from the undefeated Malakov. They had been scythed down by a storm of grapeshot and bullets until the few left standing were driven back to the trenches. At a rough guess the British had lost several hundred men, the French over two thousand.

Hour by hour the news got worse. I persuaded Nora, who was sick with dread and weakness, back to bed and received the next bulletin from Mrs. Whitehead, who spoke in a whisper. “There are three thousand French casualties, they say. The trouble was that one of their generals mistook rocket fire for the signal to attack, so his men went in too early and the element of surprise was gone.”

“But I thought the Russians were supposed to be almost defenseless by now.”

“Turns out the Russians have been playing games with us. They hid a line of guns behind their bastion, then yesterday pretended they were incapable of returning fire and saved their ammunition. It seems they were well prepared, saw our lanterns and campfires last night, and knew we must be about to attack, so they had their guns and reinforcements ready.”

“And the British?”

“Slaughter, Miss Lingwood. Raglan sent us into the Redan anyway, even though the Russian guns were still firing from the Malakov. Our men were mown down on open ground or as they tried to climb the Russian defenses. Very few even reached the Redan and now hundreds of wounded and dying are lying under the Russian bastions in the blaze of the afternoon sun, and no-one is able to reach them, because no armistice has been agreed.”

All afternoon, while carts of wounded rumbled up the hill and Nora slept, I sat at the door of Mrs. Whitehead’s hot little hut, sewing on buttons. I was trying the old trick of disengagement but it didn’t work. The blood fizzed in my veins; I was too hot, too restless, too useless. I even thought of begging Mrs. Shaw Stewart to employ me in the wards or tagging onto one of the nurses and asking to be given some menial task, anything to help make things better.

Then I saw a rider come clip-clopping smartly up to the hospital, dismount, speak to one of the orderlies, disappear from view, and reappear unexpectedly on the path above our hut. I now realized that he wore the familiar uniform of the Derbyshires and looked dusty and disheveled.

“Miss Lingwood? Ma’am. I’ve been sent up from the General Hospital. Relative of yours there, I believe. Captain Max Stukeley. In a bad way. Wants a word before he goes under the knife, if you could spare him a moment.”

A groan came from inside the hut. I nodded to the officer, told him I would leave at once, went in, and picked up my bonnet. Nora was propped on her elbow and her voice was much stronger than at any time in the last week. “Take water. Clean water for the boy. Don’t let them give him dirty stuff. And don’t you taste a drop from anyone else either. There’s no point you making yourself ill. And take clean dressings for the wounds. Those bandages you were making yesterday. And don’t let them cut a limb from him unless they must. They’re too slap-happy with the knife. I know. I’ve seen in Ireland that if a wound is kept clean, amputation may not be necessary. If he can move the limb it’s worth saving; if they take it he’s bound to die.”

“I’ll do what I can.”

“Don’t let him die. I’m telling you. I won’t want you back here if he dies. And put these in his hands. Tell him I’m praying for him.”

She clutched my wrist and dropped the green rosary beads into my palm. I refilled the water glass by her bed, threw on a shawl, and went to the door. “Mariella.” I turned, startled to hear her use my first name, but she only nodded and gestured that I should be gone.

As I dashed forward my strongest feeling was at first excitement, because Max had summoned
me
; I, Mariella Lingwood, was wanted. Never before had I walked with such a sense of purpose and so regardless of the difficulties that would reach me when I got to my destination. But this euphoria lasted only a few moments before the implications of Max’s injury took hold. Then I was transported back to the theater at Guy’s Hospital watching Henry perform an amputation: the sudden gesture with his arms, the gathering silence, the splinter of bone. If the child Tom had not survived, how could Max? I walked faster. I must save him, for Rosa’s sake. If he died there’d be just me left.

And then I realized that if Max had been hit in the thick of fighting, Newman had probably been in the fray too.

I started to run, little steps that collided with my skirts and made me breathless. In a few minutes I had left the safe eyrie of the hospital and was plunged into the harbor, where there was so much traffic that I had to elbow my way through a throng of sailors and Turkish and Sardinian soldiers. Then I went marching up the road to the General Hospital, which was tucked into the side of the hill above the railway, its first huts almost level with the tops of the masts that clustered in the harbor below.

I found chaos, and although it was only just dark the hospital blazed like a concert hall. Outside the huts men lying on pallets formed a helpless queue. I heard a yelp of pain, then realized that in fact there was a dreadful low dissonance that was the sound of suffering. Nurses and orderlies moved among the sick men with flasks and pails or bundles of lint, and doctors leant over one body after another, muttering instructions, testing limbs, moving on. When I passed too close to one of the pallets, a hand shot out and gripped my ankle. All I could see beneath me was a gaping wound in a man’s neck and so much blood on his shirt that at first I thought he was wearing a red jacket. There was no wrenching my ankle free, so I crouched down and stared into his maddened eyes but he couldn’t speak, just kept his vise-like grip.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do, I raged in my head. Someone help me. I don’t belong here.

In the end I picked up the man’s other hand and let it rest in my own, noting how rough his fingers were and how filthy the nails. I stroked his cold palm and watched a couple of flies zoom lazily down and feed in his throat. Fighting nausea, I forced myself to look into his eyes. His fingers released their grip on my ankle but his sightless gaze never left my face as I whispered fatuous words of comfort. After ten minutes or so his eyes went vacant. One moment he was there, the next, not.

I backed away and trod on the toes of a fat nurse, who stared at me in astonishment. “Who are you? Who sent you?”

“I am looking for Max Stukeley. Captain. Derbyshires.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know him.”

“He was injured. He’s waiting for an operation.”

“Over there. Try there.”

Stretcher cases were lined up under an awning outside a hut which was hung with lanterns and full of bustle. The air stank of blood and some sweet, heady smell I later discovered was chloroform, and I glimpsed bright lights, screens, trestles, and stooping figures. I moved down the row until I found Max, who was lying with his arm behind his head, face dead-white, eyes burning up into mine.

I dropped to my knees beside him.

“Took your time,” he said. “Had to have myself put back in the queue.”

“I did my best.”

“Ah, yes. Your best.” He beckoned me closer. “The leg’s smashed. Coming off. Wanted to see you before they finally do for me. Just in case. Rosa’s things are up at the camp and you must take them. Couldn’t have us both disappearing without a trace. Even if I survive this I’ll be dispatched home double quick, so I won’t get up there again.”

“Rosa’s things.”

“Can’t bear to think they’d be lost. All I have left of her.”

“I’m sure Rosa’s not lost forever, Max. I’m sure she’ll come back.”

He laughed drearily and turned away his face.

“What happened to your leg, Max?”

“Two minutes out of the trench. Shell came over. Smashed above the knee when it exploded. Useless. Useless. Could scarcely crawl.”

“It’s not your fault that you were hit.”

“Isn’t it?” His hand suddenly reached up, clutched me first by the shoulder, then the back of my neck, and pulled me down so that his face was inches from my own and his breath was hot on my mouth. “Do you think I willed it? It’s possible. Sometimes my mind detaches itself and thinks Dear Christ I’d rather be dead than here. I pray to God that’s not what I willed because those men who went on marching died for me. They went under fire because I yelled for them to get out of that trench behind me and in the first minutes I fell. They went on to their deaths.”

“What about Newman?”

“Don’t know. Didn’t see. He tried to help me but I sent him away.”

“You weren’t to know those men would die.”

“I knew that Raglan ordered us in to save his own bloody face. We stood no chance. The man has fixed ideas. Hates the French. Won’t let them run away with the idea the Brits are cowards. We knew it was suicide but we went all the same.”

“Then why did you go, Max, if you knew what would happen?”

“Orders. I obey orders.”