The Eden Passion (46 page)

In the quiet interim of reading, she was aware of her parents still standing at the door. Wolf had settled down into a deep and placid sleep beside her, apparently finding nothing in the letter to object to. And why should he? He had been mentioned as well. Oh, Wolf, she marveled silently, and stared out of the window toward the gray clouds.

"I don't think it would be wise to reply," her father suggested from the door.

"Wby not?" Lila asked. "I am invited to reply, the address included here at the bottom of the page."

While her parents held a whispered conference, she found herself already imagining the first line. "My dear John Murrey Eden . . ."

"We must be allowed to read your reply," her father stated cautiously.

"Of course." Lila smiled. "I want you to read it. My spelling is appalling, as you know, and I want it to be proper." From where she sat, she could see the worry on her mother's face. If only she could say something that would reassure her.

But suddenly a series of images appeared before her, hideous images she'd never seen before, of men screaming, their limbs torn off, a smoky hillside, rocky, with great pools of blood turning the snow pink, more screams and more explosions, and pain more acute than any she'd ever imagined in her life.

Someone within her was crying aloud, and she could not hold the tears back, and as she felt a stabbing pain in her right shoulder, she stood, her head tilted back, a moan escaping her lips. She was cold, so cold, and as she stumbled to the fire, she was only vaguely aware of her parents' frightened faces, her mother weeping as her father quickly ushered her out of the room.

As Lila knelt on the floor before the fire, she heard the door close, heard the key turning in the lock, as though it were someone's desire to contain both the pain and the cold. Not that she blamed them.

She too would have liked to take refuge in the safety of the corridor outside the locked door.

But she couldn't. This was her domain, and she had work to do. She waited for the pain and cold to pass; then slowly she sat erect before the fire, the crumpled letter still in her hand. With Wolf purring at her side, she lifted the sheet of writing paper and held it in both hands, and within the moment she saw his image on the paper, with the flickering fire behind it.

She was warm now. Smiling at his image, she crawled on hands and knees to her bureau, fetched her writing pad and inkwell and her best point and returned to the fire, where she knew, in time, her response would be made clear in the flames.

She was interrupted only once by Wolf, who insisted upon having his cup of tea, diluted with heavy cream.

As Wolf lapped contentedly nearby, Lila kept a constant vigil on the flames, the message becoming clearer, until at last she dipped the point into the ink, shook the excess off into the fire, where for a moment the ink droppings resembled a new cosmos evolving out of the flames. Then very carefully, in her best penmanship, she commenced writing,

My dear John Murrey Eden. . .

Balaklava Harbor, the Crimea, February 1855

John saw it first through the small porthole beside his hammock, a scene so dismal that he turned over and tried to recapture the comforting warmth of his dream, which was fast fading. In the dream, he had seen himself seated before a fire in a strange chamber, while nearby. . .

"My God, are you still abed? We're here!"

The voice belonged to Jack Willmot. It was very near, filled with excitement, and shattered the fragile fragment which John had brought back with him from sleep.

No matter. Dreams were nothing of very great import. John had been plagued with them every night of this miserable voyage. In a way, it was a relief to have arrived. It would be good to feel solid earth beneath his feet again.

"Well?" Willmot grinned from the narrow door. "Up and dress. You must see the sight from the upper deck."

Turning in the hammock, John smiled at the phenomenon known as Jack Willmot. When precisely had it happened, this bond between the two of them?

At last John raised up on one elbow and looked his fill through the porthole at the dismal scene. As well as he could tell, the ship was in a holding position at the mouth of the small harbor, and upon closer examination, it was John's considered opinion that they might be held at bay for the rest of the day. As far as he could see, ships of all sizes and descriptions were lined up on both sides of the harbor, every available mooring occupied and even more ships trying to angle their way toward a touch of land.

"My God," John muttered. "What a mess."

"The captain says we'll probably have to hold here until afternoon." Willmot nodded.

"Afternoon of what day?" John asked, impressed as always by the efficient planning of the British War Council.

"Oh, it'll right itself soon enough." Willmot grinned. "According to the captain, it's Brassey's vessels that are causing the trouble."

John turned on the idiocy of that statement. "Then may I suggest that we all simply turn about and head for home," he said. "Let the soldiers build their own bloody railway."

But as soon as he had said it, he regretted it, seeing on Willmot's face the tension which he had exhibited every day of this voyage. In the beginning, when Willmot had offered to bring John his meals here, John had interpreted the gesture as merely a considerate one. Then at some point it had occurred to him that Willmot was trying very hard to keep him segregated from the soldiers, for fear there would be trouble.

Slowly now John looked up to the Highlands, to that terrain he knew so well after countless hours of map study. Access to the Highlands, across which ran the route to Sebastopol, the theater of all the major fighting now, was by one difficult narrow road. There John sat up, looking closer. How curious it was to see the reality after studying the map. It was steeper than he had imagined. Had he requisitioned enough explosives? According to his estimates, they'd be doing little but blasting for the first few weeks, a great way to call attention to what was going on. The explosives would summon every Russian regiment within thirty miles. Spies, under cover of darkness, could easily report back the cause and nature of the blasting. And unless "Ivan" was more stupid than John thought, he doubted seriously if the Russians would merely turn their backs while British navvies built rail links which could improve the troop and material movement and affect the outcome of the war.

He continued to look out of the porthole, all his earlier apprehensions rising up as one. Before they'd left London, he'd registered a strong opinion with Brassey that he at least provide a portion of the navvies with arms. Oh, there would be no trouble on the first link. They were close enough to Balaklava and the protection of the British forces stationed at the base.

But beyond that rocky slope there were miles of empty, cold and frozen terrain. What a simple matter it would be for Russian units to advance on the unarmed navvies and . . .

"God," he muttered.

Apparently Willmot heard his whisper. "There's no danger, John," he said, retreating from the hammock and beginning to strip off a few layers of garments. "All our allies are scattered beyond that ridge. The French, the Turks, the Sardinians, the Algerians . . ."

John looked away from the argument, having heard it so many times before. As the ship took a slow roll to the left, he threw back the heavy cover and met the Crimean cold for the first time, dressed only in a nightshirt. "Christ," he gasped as his bare feet touched the floor.

Willmot laughed, as though grateful that John had abandoned his fears. "Then get some clothes on, lad," he ordered. "You'll empty your trunk if you're wise. Put on two of everything. I'll go fetch you hot coffee. That'll warm you right enough."

Then he was gone, slamming the narrow door behind him before John had a chance to object. It had been his intention this morning to dress and go to mess himself. He disliked having Willmot "wait" on him. Nothing to do but hurry and catch up with him.

Still shivering, he withdrew his trunk from beneath the hammock and donned two of everything. Inside the cocoon of thick garments, he found he could not move as easily. But no matter. The only movement he planned to execute today was to walk off this miserable ship as soon as possible, find Brassey and commence this insane job. At last ready, he started out into the narrow passageway.

A young seaman was just hurrying by, his face red from cold. As he stood back to give John passage, he grinned. "Not headin' toward the mess, sir, I hope."

John nodded. "I thought I might. Why?"

"Oh, the soldier boys is havin' themselves a time, they are. Passin' bottles around like they was in the Leicester Square pub. Listen! Can't you hear them?"

Then John heard the drunken discord coming from the end of the passage, slurred choruses of "Annie Laurie" mixed with "Auld Lang Syne," both punctuated by raucous laughter.

"Our fightin' finest," the seaman muttered. "All Ivan will have to do is give 'em a bottle of vodka and they'll follow after all the way to Moscow."

John looked toward the drunken discord coming from the end of the passage, hoping to catch sight of Willmot. He couldn't believe that he had joined the early-morning revelry.

Still Willmot was no place in sight, and the seaman was right. It

would serve no purpose to walk into that drunken crew. They were hard enough to endure when they were sober.

He started off in the opposite direction, heading toward the upper deck. A few moments later he scaled the narrow ladder and pushed open the door and received, like a slap in the face, the coldest blast of winter wind he'd ever felt. His eyes tearing from the cold, he made his way to the railing and stared out at the bleak scene.

It was approaching four o'clock in the afternoon when the Tyrone was finally cleared for passage into Balaklava harbor. Even then it was touch and go, her bow literally scraping the hull of an outgoing vessel as the two captains tried to manipulate their ships through a passage scarcely large enough to accommodate one.

At three different times John had been forced to take refuge down in the comparative warmth of his compartment. On the second time down, he'd encountered a very drunken Jack Willmot collapsed across his hammock, all apology and regret.

Now the man was standing beside him, erect at least, if only mildly bleary-eyed, while all about them soldiers leaned over the railings, vomiting up their early-morning celebration.

"Damn," Willmot cursed. "I should have known better."

John smiled, enjoying this turn of events. How many times Willmot had put him to bed with a stern lecture on the effects of inebriation. Now, however, John was in no mood to return the sermon. He accepted Willmot's explanation of how he'd been "drawn in" to the festivities. What harm? In a way, John wished that he had joined them. Perhaps this grim harbor would be more palatable drunk than sober.

Beyond the crowded dock he saw the ragged edge of Balaklava, plain rough dwellings, mostly of cinder block, with a curious-looking church steeple here and there.

"How in the name of God are we going to find Brassey in this mess?" he asked.

Slowly Willmot lifted his head to the chaotic scene, though clearly it was agony to do so. "He said he'd send transport," he muttered. "Keep your eyes open."

John was doing just that, but saw no one who even vaguely resembled any of Brassey's men. All at once the ship scraped against the dock in a grinding sound and came to a halt, while at either end John saw seamen throwing out enormous coils of rope to waiting dockmen, where, struggling, they looped it over the moorings, and

for the first time since he'd left Portsmouth, John felt the world grow blessedly still.

He was in the process of leaving the railing, and vacating this place, when suddenly over the shouts of the men he thought he heard his name being called.

Again he held his position and looked out over the sea of pushing men. But he saw no one he recognized, and convinced that he'd merely imagined it, he was turning away when he heard it again.

"John! John Murrey Eden!"

Squinting into the gray afternoon, he swept the crowded dock and at last found him, a man standing at the far edge of the mob, waving a red scarf in the air, shouting, "John, over here."

John gaped at the man, not recognizing him, thinking finally that it probably was one of Brassey's men sent to fetch them. But as the man pushed a few yards nearer, John took a closer look, some element of recognition dawning.

Good God! John leaned closer over the railing, the voice clear now, reminding him of Brassey's outer office back in London, a bleak period in John's life that might have been unendurable had it not been for the fellowship and warmth of. . .

"Andrew! Andrew Rhoades!"

By way of reply, the man removed his heavy cap, as though belatedly aware of the need to make himself plainly visible.

But the gesture, instead of reassuring John, caused him to look closer, half-convinced that he'd made a mistake. The voice was the same, but the face and features were entirely different, older, even some gray visible in the once dark hair. And the eyes, once alert, were now lost in shadows, the cheeks gaunt, the skin almost chalk-white, a rough, unkempt beard obscuring both the chin and the line of the jaw.

It was Andrew Rhoades, or what was left of him. In a surge of old friendship and new concern, John gave a final wave and pushed through the soldiers in search of Willmot.

He found him slumped against the partition which led to the officers' mess. "Come, Jack," he urged, reaching a hand down in assistance. "Andrew Rhoades has come to fetch us. Can you stand?"

Willmot looked slowly up through glazed eyes. "Our luggage," he muttered.

"I'll send someone for it later, or fetch it myself," John said hurriedly. "Come, let's get out of this place."

As they stumbled down the gangplank, John looked ahead to see

Andrew beating a similar path in an attempt to meet them. Up close, the devastation on his friend's face was even worse. How was it possible, John brooded angrily, for a man to leave London, age eighteen, and three years later resemble a man of fifty?