The Eden Passion (42 page)

"But withdraw!" Brassey exclaimed a third time. The mood in the room was grim and growing more so. John's attention was fully engaged, his mind running to Andrew, good, decent Andrew, who wanted only to pursue a quiet study of the law. Had he been in those cold trenches that resembled dikes? Had he come face to face with a Russian peasant or a Russian sword?

At last Brassey stood, his awesome height towering over the seated men. John wished he'd given the colonel a chance to explain. But Brassey had other options on his mind. Retrieving the pointer from the desk, he approached the map. "What would it take, Colonel, to

turn the British forces about and set them on the road to victory?"

The colonel smiled. "Short of a miracle, sir?"

"Including a miracle," Brassey said. "Your superiors and Lord Aberdeen notwithstanding, withdrawal is an obscenity which we will not consider."

"I was sent to London, sir," the officer began, "in search of a miracle. But I have been here a week and I've been told a half dozen times that my . . . miracle is not possible, this side of divine intervention."

"Name it," Brassey demanded, "or better still, let me name it for you."

He stepped up to the map. "Here," he commenced, pointing to the British harbor at Balaklava, "is where the men and materials are landed."

He looked back over his shoulder. Obligingly the colonel nodded.

"And here," Brassey went on, pointing to the black dot of Sebas-topol, "is where the bulk of the fighting takes place."

Again the colonel nodded.

"And between here," and the pointer stabbed at Balaklava, "and here," quickly it slid up to the black dot of Sebastopol, "there is one single country road which is impassable from October to March.

"A railway," he pronounced. "The British Army does not require a miracle." He smiled. "They simply need a railway."

A hush fell over the room, all minds turning on the preposterous suggestion. The colonel stirred first. "I've been told, sir, that they are one and the same, a miracle and a railway, that is—"

"Nonsense," Brassey scoffed. "You should have come to me first, Colonel, and not gone to the weak sisters who serve as my competitors." Abruptly he turned back to the map.

"Of course, it wouldn't be easy," Brassey admitted. "But then, the Grand Trunk wasn't easy, was it, men, or the Paris-Le Havre."

The direct question elicited a few mutters, as obviously the insane proposition was beginning to take hold in other minds.

Generously the colonel stepped forward with a suggestion. "It wouldn't be necessary to stretch the line the entire distance, sir, between Balaklava and Sebastopol. A trunk line extending to . . . here," and he came around the desk and pointed to a destination. "That would be sufficient. You see, the most difficult terrain is the incline itself, a distance of approximately seven miles. Beyond that, horses and wagons are most effective."

Seven miles, a mere seven miles, John thought, uphill, in the dead

of winter, caught in the crossfire between British and Russian troops. Was Brassey mad? Were they all mad?

As though in answer to his unspoken question, Brassey turned about with renewed energy and confronted his men. "We can do it, can't we?" He smiled. "We can perform this miracle that will save both British lives as well as British honor."

For a moment there was no response, as though that villain, good sense, had tempered their replies. Then some idiot standing not too far removed from John shouted, "With you leading us, we can, Mr. Brassey," and the floodgates opened, the cry of faith taken up by others, everyone shouting his confidence, the colonels and Brassey shaking hands, the entire room a furor of insanity.

John still couldn't quite believe what he'd seen or heard. Obviously Brassey had permitted himself to be swept up in a hysteria of patriotism. Well, it was none of John's concern. It simply meant that life would be very quiet for the next few months at the firm of Peto, Betts, and Brassey, and the flat in Warwick Lane would be quiet as well.

As two men filed past him, John assumed that it was safe for him to leave. He'd wait for Willmot in the outer office, although he doubted seriously if the man would be fit company tonight. He took a last look at the map, the colonel's horrors still fresh in his ear. Good God, had they all lost their minds?

Having seen and heard enough, he turned toward the door when suddenly . . .

"Eden!"

He looked back at Brassey, the officers standing to one side of the desk, Willmot and another man to the other.

"Sir?" John inquired, a bit embarrassed by the attention.

"Come forward," Brassey commanded. "You've kept a safe distance all afternoon. Now, step forward."

John glanced at Willmot. Then he did as he had been told. Before the desk he stopped.

"Where were you going?" Brassey inquired almost pleasantly.

"I thought the meeting was concluded, sir," he said. "The hour is late and I—"

"No, quite the contrary." Brassey smiled. "The hour is early. We all have round-the-clock days ahead of us. Might as well accustom ourselves to them now."

You have round-the-clock days, John thought.

"Well, then, Eden," Brassey began, settling back in his chair as

though ready for some diversion, "you've held your tongue all afternoon and well into the evening. Don't ask me to believe that there is nothing going on in that keen mind."

"No, sir," he began. "My mind is anything but empty."

Brassey nodded, as though he'd won a point. "I thought as much. Then what, might I ask, is your opinion of what you have heard here?"

"My opinion, sir, or what I've just heard?" he began, repeating the question for the benefit of all. "My opinion is this. If I were, at this moment, to shut out the world and channel all my concentration for the next twenty-four hours in one direction only, I could not possibly conceive of a scheme more deserving of the designation lunatic than the one I've heard here today."

It had been his intention to go right on. His mind had already compiled a dozen salient points with which to buttress his initial statement. But for the moment the reaction of the others held him in some fascination. The four army officers were no longer smiling. In fact, one by one those faces turned in his direction. To the left of the desk was poor Jack Willmot. In the act of searching through the files, he now froze.

Ultimately there was Brassey, no longer interested in his notepad, but settling back in his chair, looking directly up at John.

When out of all these shocked expressions, no words seemed forthcoming, John drew a breath and went on. After all, he had been invited to speak.

"I've listened carefully, sir," he began, "to everything, and while the tales were shocking to be sure, I heard nothing that I had not heard before. From Andrew. You remember Andrew Rhoades, sir. He was a clerk in your office before the 'Glorious Conflict.' All he wanted here was to save enough to study law. But the Czar changed all that.

"I've received several lengthy letters from Andrew, sir, each filled with tales as horrible as the ones we have heard today. No, more horrible in a way. We were informed of the pain and suffering here today, but we were told nothing of the bewilderment. . ."

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of the officers stiffen.

". . . which plagues the ordinary soldier. You see, sir, according to Andrew, they haven't the faintest idea what they are doing there. Oh, to be sure, it seemed like sport in the beginning, but after one has seen certain sights of war, the element of sport recedes, and men, unfortunately, need a reason for pain and suffering."

"Need a reason?" one of the officers exploded. "What better reason than Russia's imperial lust? The Czar was clearly the aggressor, both in Moldavia and—"

John smiled. "The Czar was the aggressor in his own garden, as it were. By that definition, sir, we English are aggressors in Ireland. Yet I see no ally rushing to Ireland's aid."

"It's . . . not the same," the officer sputtered.

"How is it different?"

When the officer either couldn't or wouldn't reply, Brassey urged, "Go on, Eden."

"Well, sir"—John smiled—"my point is this. If the average soldier hasn't the foggiest idea what he is fighting for, it doesn't require too much thought to figure out why the British troops are being defeated. And according to Andrew, whose opinion and judgment I respect, the true enemy is not Russia or the climate, but rather the British military establishment itself, who, ill-prepared and ill-advised, appears to be waging the war as though they were on holiday to Brighton."

"I beg your pardon," another officer angrily interrupted. "You've gone too far."

John took a step back from the angry barrage, his attention focused on Brassey alone. "You asked for my opinion, sir," he gently reminded everyone in the room. "As I've said before, to subject your civilian navvies, none of whom will be armed to the stresses of the winter, to the meaninglessness of the conflict, to the apathy of the British troops, to the Russian crossfire, to the insanity of power politics, for the purposes of constructing seven miles of railway which could be obsolete on the day it is completed, to build a supply link from fleet to army, to ship out materials and men, to engineer the line and then run it, all at cost, expecting no profit, is, with your forgiveness, sir, the height of lunacy."

There! Rather succinctly he'd combined all his points into one barrage. Now all he had to do was wait for the smoke to clear. And from the sputtering coming from the officers on his right, that might be some time.

To his left, he observed poor Jack Willmot, who looked stricken.

Brassey was stirring, two fingers rubbing back and forth across his lips. When he spoke, his question was brief, almost simpleminded. "You ... see no point in the venture, then?"

"None at all, sir."

Abruptly Brassey sat up, rubbing his forehead, his face totally obscured. "And you see no. . . profit in the venture, Eden?"

"No monetary profit, sir. In fact, I predict a loss. You will have to provide everything, tents, tools, vessels—I doubt if you can count on the British Army for anything."

John watched, fascinated, as the man slowly lowered his hands from his face. Somehow he looked martyred, as though in front of witnesses his dream had been destroyed.

As John stepped back to execute a quick exit, Brassey did a peculiar thing, not at all in keeping with the mood of the room. He grinned.

While John was still trying to interpret the grin, he saw Brassey clap his hands together as though with undisguised glee. "Then it's settled, Eden," he announced.

"I. . . beg your pardon, sir?"

"I said it's settled," Brassey roared, the grin exploding into an outright laugh. He lifted both hands and smoothed back his long white hair. "I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but what I need for this venture more than anything is one good hard-minded prag-matist, someone to keep me in line and remind me of my limitations as well as those of my men."

John listened, half-turned away. "I'm afraid I . . . don't understand, sir."

"Don't understand?" Brassey bellowed. "Don't understand!" he repeated. "You who have just given us a succinct appraisal of the British Army, the French Army, and the Russian Army, including a concise definition of goals and capabilities of each?"

"You asked for my opinion, sir, and—"

"And you certainly gave it," Brassey said. "And an interesting opinion it was, quite illuminating, I'm certain, to everyone in this room, most particularly to me, who now has the pleasure of informing you that you will go to the Crimea with me as my first assistant."

John's hand, lifting toward the door, froze.

As Brassey laughed heartily, all the others joined in, the officers grateful that nothing John had said had altered the man's initial insanity. Even Willmot was laughing, a look of pure rapture on his face, as though John had been singled out for a spectacular honor.

While John was struggling to understand this curious turn of events, Brassey came out from behind the desk, hand extended. "Well, what do you say, Eden?" he demanded. "Shall, together, the

two of us take on the Czar as well as the inept British Army and show them both what Englishmen are capable of accomplishing?"

John still couldn't believe what he was hearing. "I . . . can't—" he began, and was not given a chance to finish.

"Of course you can." Brassey grinned. "Didn't I say I needed you? First assistant? Do you have any notion what that means?"

For a moment John considered laughing. It would have been sport to mimic the man. Instead he stepped away. "I say no thank you, Mr. Brassey," he called over his shoulder.

"First assistant, Mr. Eden!" Brassey repeated. "You haven't answered my question. Do you know what that means?"

"As I said-"

"It means prestige."

"If you will excuse me, sir—"

"It means advancement, and for one as ambitious as you—"

"I'm not ambitious, sir," John replied, his hand on the door.

Again Brassey laughed. "Not ambitious!" he repeated. "I look at you, Eden, and I see myself a quarter of a century ago."

John had heard enough, and for the second time tried to take his leave.

For the second time Brassey halted him by the mere force in his voice. "Then, profit, Eden."

John held his position by the door.

"Profit!" Brassey repeated. "The chance to learn the art of contracting from the inside. Simple lessons, Eden, which I have perfected and which have transformed me from a very poor man into a very rich one."

With his face averted so that no one might see and interpret it as weakness, John closed his eyes. At last the man had said something that interested him. But abruptly he turned, his defenses back in place, and only slightly weaker than before. "I have a blueprint for my life, Mr. Brassey, as all sober men do, and it does not include a diversion in the Crimea."

He succeeded in opening the door this time, though a curious clucking noise prevented him from passing through it.

"What a shame," he heard Brassey say, "to have an early opinion confirmed. How. . . disappointing."