The Street Philosopher - By Matthew Plampin Page 0,91
am a major-general, and will be addressed as such by you,’ he snapped. ‘We are in the camp of Her Majesty’s Army, not one of your grub-street taverns.’
‘My apologies, Major-General, but I—’
‘And my meaning, which you plainly comprehend but choose to ignore, is that you, sir, you are despicable for making such an accusation.’
Turning away from Cracknell in disgust, the Major-General addressed Wray. The Captain came to attention with such force that Codrington’s quill bounced in its inkpot. Trussed up in his dress uniform he looked like a little bantam cockerel, not the merciless murderer of the villa. He stated that there was no truth whatsoever to any of the newspapermen’s foul allegations. He had been fighting against the Russians that morning, from beginning to bitter end. Confirmation of his continual presence on the front line could have been provided by his immediate superior, Major James Maynard, had he not died in Colonel Boyce’s advance past the Sandbag Battery.
‘And what of these corporals–Mallender and…?’
‘Lavery, sir,’ Boyce said. His arm was in a sling, and he had a look of noble endurance on his face. ‘Both were killed in the advance.’
‘So Lavery was done in too, was he?’ sneered Cracknell. ‘You again, Wray, I suppose, covering your tracks?’
Kitson stared at the floor, wishing that Cracknell would keep quiet. Such combativeness would not help them; and sure enough, Codrington told him bluntly to hold his tongue or be thrown out into the mud.
‘They gave their lives for their Queen in the finest fashion,’ Boyce continued with stoic reserve. ‘I am appalled by this slander, quite frankly, but not altogether surprised by it. I have crossed swords with this paper’s senior correspondent before, and know him to be a liar and a cad of the lowest conceivable sort. The man bears a bitter grudge against the army, as any who have read a London Courier recently will know all too well. He seems to hold me in particular disdain–a source of no little pride, I must say.’
Someone to the rear of the hut chuckled. Was Boyce making an oblique allusion to the widespread rumours about Cracknell and his wife, Kitson wondered, and using them to his advantage, suggesting that here lay the motive for these allegations?
‘I saw the Courier’s coverage of the Alma,’ mused Codrington. ‘It was tendentious, certainly, and quite reckless in its criticism of Lord Raglan and our generals.’
‘I assure you that we hold no grudge against the army, Major-General,’ said Cracknell darkly, ‘only against those who would lead it to ruin through their incompetence.’
Codrington was not listening. He looked at Boyce. ‘You know nothing of this villa, I take it–or this painting?’
Boyce said that he did not.
‘Is there even anything there?’ Codrington asked his staff. ‘I see nothing on the maps.’
‘I rode out there at dawn, sir,’ said a major. ‘Found a burned-out ruin, nothing else.’
‘Very well.’ Codrington sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. Kitson knew then that it was over; his mind was made up. ‘This has gone quite far enough. I think we are seeing the hazards inherent in this recent fashion for letting untrained civilians embed themselves amongst the fighting men. Whether these two are crazed by drink, or their experiences of battle, or something else altogether I cannot say, but I absolutely will not allow them to repay the army’s misplaced hospitality with fantastical, abusive accusations against an officer who fought with such courage against the Russian attack.’ He pointed at the newspapermen, stressing his pronouncements with aggressive jabs of his finger. ‘If I hear that you have written a single word of this sorry business in that Whiggish rag of yours I will see you both expelled from the plateau. I have Lord Raglan’s ear, and I promise that you’ll be back in Constantinople so fast your heels won’t touch the bloody ground. It will go no further than this room. Is that clear?’
Cracknell bowed. ‘As glass, Major-General.’
An hour later, Cracknell and Kitson sat on the rocky outcrop from which they had watched the ill-fated advance of the 99th two days before. Cracknell was working, and grumbling constantly as he wrote. ‘Like a damned gentleman’s club, all bloody watching out for each other like that. Blasted Codrington holds his rank only because of a dearth of other candidates. Old men and stop-gaps, that’s what the army’s reduced to, old men and bloody stop-gaps. And they dare to speak of Maynard! Poor, upright, honourable Maynard…’