Master Georgie (15 page)

 ‘Myrtle says you’ve not been quite yourself. I understand there was an incident yesterday -’

‘It was the pony that got bit,’ I said. ‘Not I. Besides, Beatrice is always on hand to give comfort.’

He stared at me strangely. I smiled and assured him I wasn’t suffering from delusions, just that thinking of Beatrice kept me sane. I knew what troubled him - my failure to mention that portion of a limb stumbled upon by Myrtle. I could have told him that I’d heard the rain drumming on the stony path and that it sounded a death rattle in my ears. I could have described the peculiar angle of the toes...but then, if it were within my powers to coolly and dispassionately deliberate on such things, as he undoubtedly must, seeing he spends his days gazing on similar horrors, my life might be easier and my speech less guarded.

As it is, severe self-control is necessary if I am to avoid being mastered by the impressions of the moment. This is what Horace meant when he advised we should study carefully that which will best promote a tranquil state of mind. I must bear and forbear and not wish things to be other than they are. Which is why I am engaged in contemplating my earlier existence, with a view to tracing whether chance or fate has brought me to this dreadful place at this particular moment in history.

Thus - on hearing the rough dialect of some Scottish infantryman about the camp, I dwell on childhood connections to his homeland. Though Manchester born, my father acted occasionally as an agent for the Leith Glassworks, in which capacity he was required to sail from one Hebridean station to another in search of kelp. On returning home from one such tour he brought with him a toy four-wheeled cart made of tin and drawn by wooden horses. Before I was put to bed I had dismantled the cart into its various pieces. It was an act propelled by curiosity, rather than a destructive urge; I was anxious to learn how the pieces fitted together. I cannot remember whether I was whipped for it, though I suspect not as my father was a kind man.

It was in Scotland that I first showed an aptitude for geology, the shores of Cromarty being strewn with water-rolled fragments of primary rock derived from the west during the ages of boulder clay. On successive visits during my boyhood I took a diligent delight in sauntering over the pebble beds shaken up by the frequent storms. I took Beatrice to the spot some two years after we were married and attempted to interest her in the generic character of the porphyries, granites, gneisses, quartz rocks, mica-schists, etc., which littered the beach. Alas, there was an unfortunate encounter with a crustacean, which she swore had nipped her ankle, although I saw no sign of a mark. Result - we returned to our lodgings in silence.

No sooner had George gone back to his odious work than Myrtle came to ask if I would help tend her pony. I have no doubt it was at George’s suggestion. The animal’s wound was not serious; there are horses in far worse straits, and men too, for that matter.

Myrtle is an interesting subject - in regard to the question as to whether fate or chance holds the upper hand. The ifs are numerous. If Beatrice had not shown an affection for her, would she not have vanished into the orphanage? What if Pompey Jones’s unfortunate arrangement of the tiger’s head had not ended Annie’s hopes of motherhood? If old Mrs Hardy had woken that morning in a cheerful mood, would Myrtle have been required to follow George down to the town? Then there is the matter of his returning to Blackberry Lane by a different route than was usual. If the woman’s screams had echoed unheard in another street, what then? And if Mr Hardy had been confined to the blue room with a cold-

Perhaps chance and destiny are interdependent, in that the latter cannot be fulfilled without the casual intervention of the former. A craggy rock placed at a distance from water will never be worn smooth.

‘Myrtle,’ I began, ‘you were attached to George right from a child, were you not?’ ‘I was,’ she said. ‘But why?’

‘Why did you become attached to Beatrice?’ she countered, and flashing me a glance of good-humoured malice, added, ‘She was often cruel to you. I’ve seen her hit you.’

‘I had reached an age when a man should be married. And besides, possibly it is in my nature to gain satisfaction from being treated roughly.’

‘It’s not in mine,’ she said, and instructed me to hold the pony’s head firmly while she dabbed at its flank with a dampened rag.

‘He’s a good-looking man,’ I mused. ‘But that is not the sort of thing a child particularly notices.’

‘Is it not?’ she exclaimed. ‘Why, a child is always more aware of beauty than an adult. They’re not hindered by preconceptions.’

 ‘Aware, certainly,’ I agreed. ‘But not susceptible.’

‘Nonsense,’ she said, and her mouth became sulky.

‘Nor,’ I went on, ‘do I remember George taking an especial interest in you. At least, no more than the rest of us...once your prattling days had passed.’

‘Nor did he,’ she said. ‘But for one time, and that was enough.’

I urged her to explain, at which she stared at me defiantly. She has a strong face, the eyes deep set and grave. Some weeks back she’d cropped her hair to be rid of the lice and but for her dress might now be taken for a boy.

‘It’s you we should be talking about,’ she said. ‘Not me.’

It was then I lost my temper and called her impertinent. Which was unfair of me. It was George I should have been angry with, not her. She stood, rag in hand, the defiance quite gone out of her, her eyes more mournful than ever. Dear God, I thought, how we have misused this poor child. But for chance she might have become a parlourmaid or the respectable wife of an honest working man.

That evening I was delighted to accompany George to the quarters of a Captain Jerome. His aunt had sent him a hamper of food, and, having reason to be grateful to George for curing an irritation of the bowel, he was generous enough to wish to share his good fortune. Myrtle wasn’t included. She remained in the company of a motherly woman who has both a husband and son in the Light division. It was thought impolite to ask one woman without the other - also it would have meant less to eat all round.

As it was, two other gentlemen joined us, Captain Framp-ton of the 57th and a young lieutenant named Gormsby who had been involved in the skirmish at the Alma. I found the latter a highly nervous individual, wholly lacking in confidence; he could hardly hold his fork for the tremor in his hand and twice he spilt his wine.

The captain was fortunate to live within the four walls of a dilapidated one-storey house some quarter-mile from the camp. True, its windows were gone and there were several buckets placed about the floor to catch the rain dripping through the holes in the roof, but we dined at a proper table, albeit rickety, and the chair I sat on had a fair amount of upholstery.

The talk was mostly about war, in particular of the initial lack of support given to the Light division by the 1st division under the command of the Duke of Cambridge. Apparently the Duke was inexperienced. It was only after dangerous dithering that the Grenadiers and the Cold-stream Guards reassembled and successfully routed the Russians.

I took no part in this discussion. How could I? All this talk of brigades and divisions and regiments considerably fuddles my mind. Nor did I care to add to the comments on the recent flogging of a rifleman for being drunk on guard duty. He should have received seventy lashes but collapsed after no more than fifty, it later being found that he had a fragment of ball-shot lodged in his back from the previous night’s encounter with the enemy. George had attended him and said he would likely survive, though much diminished in both mind and body. I endeavoured to fill my head with other things and fancied I saw Beatrice in the candlelight, pursing her lips censoriously at the manner in which I shovelled down my food. If she had been seated next to me I don’t doubt she would have snatched up bits for herself, particularly when Auntie’s plum pudding was served.

I was on happier ground, if not for long, when Captain Jerome pondered on the likelihood of our being home by Christmas. He had a house in Ireland with very extensive stables and much missed his string of horses. Damn fool that he was - his estimation - he had brought out one of his favourite mounts, Diabolo, as far as Kalamita Bay, where it had sickened and died. No obvious cause; but then, how could a creature so refined, so bred for perfection, survive such conditions? He felt its loss keenly, and had stood for an hour or more on the beach watching it float out to sea. He had every expectation of meeting this miraculous animal in the next world, though he earnestly hoped their reunion would be delayed for some years yet. I tried to look suitably affected at this nonsense, and failed. Such mawkishness offends me.

‘It was Plato,’ I ventured, ‘who held quadrupeds to be a form of deteriorated humanity and essentially brutal.’ Even as the words leapt from my mouth I regretted them: Jerome’s brow was thunderous. I was saved by young Gormsby, mute until now, stammering out, ‘There is no more brutal a species than man.’

Jerome toyed with his glass and looked immensely gloomy. Captain Frampton, who long since had fallen under the table, emitted a long, weary sigh. Outside, the low growl of the heavy guns on the heights above the ravine rolled through the night. Inside, the raindrops plop-plopped into the buckets.

At last, I said, ‘You are acquainted, I am sure, with the myth of Athens waging war against a city founded by Neptune on the island of Atlantis -’

‘We are not,’ said George, ‘but I’m sure you will tell us -’ ‘The gods allowed a great victory, after which both victors and vanquished were swallowed up by an earthquake and the island sank beneath the sea.’

‘And what are we supposed to deduce from that?’ asked Captain Jerome, watching the spin of an insect about the candle flame.

‘Why,’ I replied, ‘that Mr Gormsby is in the right of it. We are a despicable species and deserve the punishment meted out by the gods.’

George and I took our leave at midnight, on foot. There was no moon and we jostled against each other in the darkness, our boots squelching mud.

Totter,’ George said, ‘is it simply thoughtlessness, or is it your intention to give offence?’ ‘Offence -’

‘Have you not the sensitivity to understand that these men are on nodding terms with death?’

It is my sensitivity,’ I replied agitatedly, ‘that will not allow me to contemplate what is happening. I am not like you. You have spent years up to your elbows in blood -’ ‘There’s no need to shout. I am not deaf -’ To you the body is a mere composition of flesh and sinew. You care nothing for the brain -’

‘The brain,’ he said, ‘equally disintegrates when met by force. It is no more durable than the rest of us.’

‘I am a man accustomed to pass the hours in the reading of books,’ I cried. Stumbling, I would have fallen but for the support of his arm. ‘I am a man accustomed to sleeping against the curve of his wife’s back -’

‘Women, ‘George muttered. ‘Always women.’

There lies the barrier between us. I have never understood his aversion to the female sex, beyond the burden of love his mother placed upon him. One should never forget the degeneracy that preceded the fall of Rome. As a product of a modern society I am persuaded that the union of the opposite sexes is desirable, not only in regard to the continuation of the race, but for its beneficial effect on the soul. My argument is admittedly weak, since I am far from convinced of the existence of such a spiritual organ. I had deluded myself into thinking that Myrtle’s seduction of George - it can be couched no other way, for it was she who invaded his room that moon-dappled night - had swung him round. The chance arrival at Varna of Pompey Jones, breathing out fire, and my unannounced entry into the hospital tent in search of a stomach powder, put paid to the notion.

From somewhere to our right came the noise of tramping feet and the clank of shovels; the picquets were going out. The tiny spark of a spent cigarette sailed through the blackness and a voice called, ‘Damn this rain. I shan’t be surprised if we turns into fishes.’

Bad news awaited George. Word had got through that William Rimmer was dead of a head wound. As always, it was supposed he had not suffered. The shot had hit him fair and square between the eyes and snuffed him out like a candle.

*

 Pompey Jones has shown up again, this time solely in charge of the photographer’s van. His superior is not with him and he boasts of being on an important assignment for the Royal College of Surgeons, namely the obtainment of studies featuring wounds sustained by both the living and the dead. This, of course, requires him to spend his time in the company of George, though sometimes I have spied Myrtle and him involved in conversation. The van is somewhat the worse for wear, a shell having landed nearby and showered it with fragments. I caught Myrtle patting its sides as though it was an animal that needed calming. Two of the windows have gone and the paintwork is much scored, revealing streaks of purple and a curious golden letter, either U or N.

We are to move shortly, further up the Tchernaya valley towards a place known as Inkerman. I believe I visited this spot in happier days, for I recall ruins of the same name upon the mountainous heights.

Not wishing to be in the dark as to both the purpose and direction of our journey, I was forced to enquire of Captain Jerome where exactly we were heading. Beyond stating that we were to form part of the British siege corps to the right of Sebastopol, he was of little help, but reluctantly lent me a Russian map of the area. As far as I could tell the ridge called Inkerman is separated on the west by the Careenage Ravine and though forested to the east is open and bare to the west.

 This, of course, means that we shall yet again be at the mercy of the elements.

I am in two minds as to whether I should bother to pack my tent, it being in a wretched state, perfectly sodden and much holed. It would be better for my health if I slept in the hospital tent, though that too is in a deplorable condition. I am at least better off as far as transport is concerned; three days ago over two hundred cavalry horses of the Light Brigade stampeded into the camp, their riders having perished in a charge along the north valley.