The Eden Passion (48 page)

Without warning, Willmot thought of Edward Eden, and how proud he would be of his son. If only the man had not died so early.

He was summoned out of his old grief by a rustling of pages, and looked across the tent to see John lying on his back, the letter clasped atop his chest, his eyes staring upward, as though relishing the words he'd just read.

Peculiar, how much those simple, almost childlike letters meant to him. And from a young girl he'd never formally met. Oh, to be sure, John had told him about Lila Harrington, as much as there was to tell. On occasion he'd even shared her letters, allowing Willmot to read for himself the delicate penmanship on the pale blue writing paper, accounts concerning the antics of her cat, the condition of a winter orchard, the shades of pink in a March sunset, and always, at the end, warning John to take care.

Most peculiar, Willmot thought again as he pulled the fur rug higher to cover his frozen ears. Yet, perhaps not so. He knew for a fact that John had never recovered from the loss of Elizabeth, and before that, the loss of Eden. In the harsh cold male world of the Crimean winter, Lady Lila Harrington probably appeared before him like a saint, a soft voice and pretty head filled with nothing of greater importance than the care and feeding of her cat.

In spite of his efforts to keep warm, Willmot shivered. At the faint sound, John looked up.

"I thought you were asleep," he said, refolding the letter.

"Who can sleep?"

"Still you need your rest," John scolded, "if you plan to keep pace . . ."

Pleased by the realization that John cared for him, Willmot sat up, drawing the fur rug about his shoulders. "I can work you under the bed any day, my friend." He smiled. "As for the navvies, I'm the one who prods them. Remember?"

John looked across at him. "I don't know what I would do with-

out you," he said, slipping the letter inside his coat. "God," he muttered, drawing his blanket up. "Will we ever get out of this frozen hell?"

He sounded so tired. Quietly Willmot reminded him, "By your own estimate, about three weeks should see us on the ship home."

"Not by my estimate," he corrected. "Those words were Brassey's, not mine. The estimate his as well, and based on his ego, as always."

There! The outline of John's latest and most violent disagreement with Brassey. When work had first started back in Balaklava in January, at John's urgent recommendation, Brassey had pulled one hundred and seventy navvies off the line, armed them, briefly trained them with the help of the army, and had sent them out to act as scouts. Thus, with this slight protection the other fifteen hundred navvies had proceeded with the blasting and the laying of track. The work had gone well, with round-the-clock shifts, the men driving themselves as never before.

But now, with the end in sight, Brassey wanted to pull the armed scouts back in. He'd called a counsel only the day before in the large mess tent, with five foremen present, including Willmot, though the true battle, as always, was between John and Brassey. And what a battle it had been, the worst to date, both men shouting at each other from opposite ends of the table.

Brassey's contention was simple. The Russians had not felt compelled to attack in three months. Why should they marshal a force now when the railway was ninety percent completed?

John's argument had been valid as well. Why not now? The army did not have the personnel to defend the newly built railway. What a simple matter it would be for the Russians to dispatch a unit to the rear, come upon the navvies by surprise, decimate their numbers, then, working backward, systematically plant explosives and destroy three months of hard labor.

In a surge of pity Willmot watched John as he stared at the canvas floor covering. Whatever diversion he'd found in the young girl's letter was now gone, obliterated by his conviction that Brassey's judgment was flawed.

Willmot started to speak, then changed his mind. In a way, he had to admit that he agreed with Brassey. The likelihood of a Russian attack seemed remote. There had been countless times in the past when they might have done so. But according to the scouts, they'd seen nothing in the frozen wilderness but bedraggled and retreating British soldiers. Then too, the job was so near completion.

Those one hundred and seventy navvies back at work on the line could make a vast difference.

If only he could convince John of this.

Suddenly the flap of their tent was pushed open. From where Willmot sat on the edge of the cot, he saw the tall figure of Thomas Brassey, the tip of his nose and cheeks ruddy with cold, the rest of him so encased in cloaks and wrappings that he looked twice his normal size, filling the narrow tent opening and obliterating the still-gray afternoon sky beyond.

John did not turn, as though he'd identified the man from the expression on Willmot's face. Without acknowledging Brassey in any way, he moved to his cot, retrieved his blanket and stretched out as though the most sensible course of action for all men now was sleep.

Annoyed by John's rudeness, Willmot stood. "Mr. Brassey . . * He nodded courteously, trying to compensate for the disrespect coming from the cot.

But Brassey had not come to see Willmot. From the moment he'd entered the tent, his eyes had never left John's face, and now, in spite of the rudeness, Willmot thought he detected a look of humor in Brassey's eyes. "I've come to effect a truce," he announced broadly, looking down on John. "There's enough warfare going on around us. I prefer not to engage in hostilities with my . . . valuable assistant."

My God! This was as close to an apology as Brassey would come. And considering that Willmot wasn't absolutely certain that Brassey owed John an apology, he looked down on the young man with increasing irritation.

But John showed no sign of making a response.

Brassey stared down on him a moment longer, then took one step toward the cot, his manner changing, becoming more businesslike. "I come with news," he said bluntly. "Czar Nicholas died on the second of March. Alexander has succeeded, and his first official act was to recall General Menshikov."

The incredible message had been delivered in rapid-fire succession. Brassey smiled. "The Russian Army is in complete disarray, and my courier tells me that a tentative peace conference was opened in Vienna on the fifteenth of this month."

Willmot grinned. Then it was almost over. Home to an endless hot bath, good English tea and one of Childe's massive beefsteaks. "Did you hear, John?" he exclaimed, puzzled by the continuing lack of reaction coming from the cot opposite him.

Apparently Brassey was suffering from the same bewilderment. "Well, Eden, did you hear?" he shouted. "Please make a comment, suitable or otherwise."

At last the head on the pillow shifted. "Our work here is completed, then?" he asked.

Willmot was on the verge of answering when he saw Brassey's head moving back and forth. "Not . . . quite," he said, stripping off his fur hood. "The government wants us to finish what we've started."

As though John sensed the man's hesitancy, he sat up, swinging his boots over the edge of the cot, his manner as cold as Willmot had ever seen it. "Why go to the trouble of completing a line that will never be used?"

"I said ... a tentative peace conference," Brassey repeated. "There's still the matter of Sebastopol."

John looked up. "The matter being that the Allies have it and the Russians want it?"

Brassey nodded. "Undoubtedly it will be settled at the peace table."

"And if it isn't?"

Brassey hesitated, his pleasure at his own announcement rapidly receding. "It will be," he snapped. "In the meantime—"

"In the meantime," John interrupted, "little or nothing has changed. We continue to survey the terrain, blast when necessary, lay the tracks and drive the spikes."

Brassey nodded, losing patience. "Of course, of course," he muttered. "But under different conditions."

"How different?" John asked.

"My God, are you totally dense?" Brassey exploded. "Didn't you hear what I said? The Russian Army is in complete disarray. They pose no threat now. To anyone."

John smiled as though he were dealing with a child. "Did your courier tell you that, Mr. Brassey, your half-frozen British courier who is beginning to wonder if he'll ever get his feet warm or see the hop fields at harvest time?"

Brassey glared down at him, the exchange becoming as angry as the one the day before. "I must confess, Eden," Brassey went on, making an effort to rein in his anger, "I am as baffled as ever by you. In a way, your assistance on this project has been invaluable, and in another way you have made it one of the most complex and difficult undertakings of my career."

"Then I offer my apologies and tender my resignation," John replied. "Give me a horse to get back to Balaklava, and I will not further impede your progress in any way."

Apparently the deliberate manner in which he had spoken only served to enrage Brassey further. He stepped closer to the cot. "What precisely is it that you want, Eden?" he shouted. "I've followed your suggestions from the beginning, frequently against my better judgment when my natural inclination was to toss you out."

John rose, though not with any sense of outrage. "Then why didn't you, Mr. Brassey?"

For a few moments a taut silence filled the tent as the two men faced each other. At last Brassey stepped away from the encounter, one gloved hand pushing back the unruly white hair. "I've one more piece of news, gentlemen," he announced coldly from the tent opening. "I have this morning given orders for the scouts to return to their jobs on the line. With their numbers, ten days will see us to completion, and we all can leave here."

Suddenly John stirred, his earlier air of relaxation replaced by shocked anger. "You've . . . done what?" he demanded, following after the man.

Brassey turned, a faint smile on his face. "I believe you heard me well enough, Eden. In essence, what I've done is regain command of my own men, my own expedition."

"Your men?" John shouted, his outrage filling the small tent. "To what extent are they your men? Does that give you the right to jeopardize their lives? At least give them arms if you call in the scouts."

"They are navvies, not soldiers," Brassey snapped. "Most of them illiterate at that. They wouldn't know one end of a rifle from the other." He turned toward the tent opening and jerked the flap back. "And the scouts are in," he added, "have been since midmorning, doing what they have been trained to do, which is to build a railway."

For the first time he looked sharply at Willmot as though in the simple act of sharing a tent with John Murrey Eden he shared his madness as well. "And what are you doing in here?" he shouted. "Number Three Section needs a foreman. I believe that's what you were hired for."

Taken aback by this tone of voice from the man he revered, Will-mot struggled with an explanation. "It was my relief, sir . . ." he began. "I was on the line until dawn—"

"I've been on the line since yesterday morning," Brassey boasted, "without respite."

He paused as if to see if any further rebuttal would be forthcoming from any quarter. Willmot looked across at John, saw his eyes leveled, some private assessment going on inside his mind. Blessedly he kept silent, as though aware of Brassey's state of mind.

As for Brassey, the silence now seemed to anger him as much as words. "Nothing further to say?" he demanded sarcastically of John. "I can't believe it. That tongue motionless? For the first time?"

As his voice rose in sarcasm, Willmot was forced to look away. It was as though the man were disintegrating before their eyes. Of course, Brassey had admitted to no sleep in over thirty-six hours. Then why didn't he have the good sense to take himself away until . . .

Then he did. He looked back into the tent for a final time, all of his attention focused on John again. "Forgive the . . . harshness of this exchange, Eden," he muttered. "I would be less than honest if I said anything but that your services to me have been . . . invaluable." Then he was gone.

"He's mad," John said quietly, staring at the tent opening flapping in the wind.

"Just fatigued," Willmot corrected, turning back to his cot. The encounter had worn him out and left him as baffled as always. What peculiar forces were at work between these two men?

He sat wearily on the edge of the cot and urged John to, "Come. No point in pursuing it further. It's not so bad," he added. "Home by the first week in April. Surely you have no objection to that."

John looked at him, an expression of incredulity on his face. He seemed on the verge of saying something, then apparently changed his mind. Without a word he retrieved his heavy gloves from the end of the cot and left the tent, and left Willmot to puzzle over both his expression and his sudden exit.

Willmot shrugged. No point in asking what the sense of it all was. In an unnatural situation, men behaved in an unnatural manner.

That was all.

March 21, 1855

From the top of the high plateau, John could just see the first light of dawn. Below, the bonfires which followed the line resembled a hundred small suns, while the real one on the black horizon paled in comparison.

He'd lost track of the numbers of times he'd been up and down the line, his attention divided between the navvies on one side and the blackness on the other. Now almost frozen and in need of a fresh horse, he was starting down toward one of the fires.

Night was by far the worst, and for the last three, since that afternoon when Brassey had revealed himself to be wholly mad, John had appointed himself a search party of one and had spent each night riding the escarpments which bordered the narrow canyon where Section Three was being laid. If there was need for a cry of alarm, his most surely would be weak and inefficient. But it would be better than nothing and it might give the unsuspecting navvies an extra minute to find a mount and perhaps a weapon.

With less than four hundred yards to go, he drew up on a level stretch of ground for one last look. Below in a red-black scene that looked like something out of Hades, he saw the navvies working, the resounding echo of their hammers and picks shattering the still night. There were little more than two hundred in all working on Section Three, the tip of the spear known as "Brassey's Miracle." The others were working at various places back down the line, crews following the branch lines in all directions.