Boyce and his magnificent uniform already had the attention of the crowd gathered there on the steps. The sight of his sword, flashing in the grey afternoon, elicited a spasm of alarm. Like a flock of startled geese the people retreated, leaving Cracknell exposed before the fuming Brigadier-General. He began to speakjust as Boyce lunged.

The sword was ceremonial, intended for grand parades rather than slaughter, but the Brigadier-General still managed to drive it a good few inches into his foe. Cracknell wavered for a moment, his lips moving wordlessly, and then dropped to his knees. With a grimace, Boyce planted a highly polished boot in the centre of the Tomahawk's collarbone and made to pull the sword out; but the awkward angle, and the sheer force with which the officer wrenched it towards him, caused the slender blade to snap suddenly. The two men flew apart. Cracknell hit the Exhibition steps with a heavy groan, his umbrella leaping from his hand and bouncing down to the turning circle.

The Brigadier-General quickly regained his balance, altered his hold on the sword's filigreed hilt and prepared to stab at his enemy with the broken end. Before he could do this, a large constable intervened, seizing his arm and commanding him to desist. Boyce tried to shake this man off, and the next instant half a dozen constables were on the Crimean hero, wrestling him to the ground.

Raindrops struck against Cracknell's face, filling his eyes, his mouth, running down through his black beard. Someone close by called for a doctor. He managed to lift his head, and received a blurred impression of a hard, straight protrusion with a jagged end, poking up just above his right nipple. Beneath it, under his cloak, a bright red blot was spreading steadily across the grubby white of his shirt.

And past this he could see Boyce, still struggling to get at him, yelling with helpless, choking fury as he was taken away. Although now faint with pain, the Tomahawk could not help but let out a shallow, coughing laugh.

'II am well,' he announced hoa.r.s.ely, to no one in particular. 'Quite well ...'

At Sea

July 1857

1.

And so, the column concluded, the Brigadier-General is now in the Brigadier-General is now in custody of the Manchester police, charged with attempted murder custody of the Manchester police, charged with attempted murder a man disgraced. The precise motive for the Brigadier-General's a man disgraced. The precise motive for the Brigadier-General's vicious a.s.sault remains unknown. His victim a.s.serts that he was vicious a.s.sault remains unknown. His victim a.s.serts that he was present as an independent citizen, there only to cheer his monarch. present as an independent citizen, there only to cheer his monarch. The Exhibition authorities have pleaded ignorance; its chairman, The Exhibition authorities have pleaded ignorance; its chairman, Mr Thomas Fairbairn, has said that the Brigadier-General had Mr Thomas Fairbairn, has said that the Brigadier-General had spoken briefly with the Queen and then excused himself from the spoken briefly with the Queen and then excused himself from the building rather suddenly. The picture saloon in which this audience building rather suddenly. The picture saloon in which this audience took place was closed to the public the morning after the incident, took place was closed to the public the morning after the incident, but has since reopened with the display slightly adjusted. It all seems but has since reopened with the display slightly adjusted. It all seems to be an impenetrable mystery. to be an impenetrable mystery.

In the wake of this brutal and unprovoked attack, however, we note that questions are being posed in certain quarters about the note that questions are being posed in certain quarters about the Brigadier-General's private affairs. These have focused upon his Brigadier-General's private affairs. These have focused upon his recent acc.u.mulation of wealth, and the suggestion that he benefited recent acc.u.mulation of wealth, and the suggestion that he benefited from inappropriate links with a certain Manchester foundryone from inappropriate links with a certain Manchester foundryone that prospered during the late war. The police seem reluctant to that prospered during the late war. The police seem reluctant to scrutinise this matter, but we understand that a number of informal scrutinise this matter, but we understand that a number of informal investigations are already underway. investigations are already underway.

The victim, Richard Cracknell, the Tomahawk of the Courier, lies injured in the Manchester Royal Infirmary; yet already he is lies injured in the Manchester Royal Infirmary; yet already he is writing again, and has promised this publication a full account of writing again, and has promised this publication a full account of the attack, as well as his views on the rumours of further wrongdoing, the attack, as well as his views on the rumours of further wrongdoing, for inclusion in our very next number. for inclusion in our very next number.

Kitson put down the paper. So there it was. Somehow, Cracknell had prevailed. He looked around the state-room of the H. M. S. Stromboli H. M. S. Stromboli. It was decorated in a spa.r.s.e, functional style; a smattering of travellers sat eating sandwiches from paper parcels and leafing idly through books and magazines. Despite everything that had occurred, he felt the slight rekindling of an all but forgotten regard. A little disquieted by this, he rose to his feet, picking up the European railway almanac he had just purchased from the counter at the stateroom's aft end, and headed for the door to the deck. He left the copy of the London Courier London Courier lying on the table. lying on the table.

A group of chattering children hung from the rail of the Stromboli Stromboli like washing on a line. They were staring at the coast that emerged steadily from the haze before the ship, pointing out details to one another as it drew nearer. Parents and governesses stood close behind, hands clutching their hats and bonnets to their heads, their shawls held tightly against the brisk sea wind. Squinting in the afternoon sunshine, Kitson could see a long strip of yellow beach, some low cliffs, and the rise of green fields beyond. Directly before the like washing on a line. They were staring at the coast that emerged steadily from the haze before the ship, pointing out details to one another as it drew nearer. Parents and governesses stood close behind, hands clutching their hats and bonnets to their heads, their shawls held tightly against the brisk sea wind. Squinting in the afternoon sunshine, Kitson could see a long strip of yellow beach, some low cliffs, and the rise of green fields beyond. Directly before the Stromboli Stromboli was their destination, the port of Boulogne, a jumble of pale stone crowned with steeples. The bay was crowded with vessels, from fishing skiffs to large steam cruisers like the one he stood upon. Kitson rested against the rail and put his left hand upon it. The polished bra.s.s was cold to the touch. He looked down at his new plain silver ring, tapping it against the rail. It made a pleasingly sharp, reverberating sound. was their destination, the port of Boulogne, a jumble of pale stone crowned with steeples. The bay was crowded with vessels, from fishing skiffs to large steam cruisers like the one he stood upon. Kitson rested against the rail and put his left hand upon it. The polished bra.s.s was cold to the touch. He looked down at his new plain silver ring, tapping it against the rail. It made a pleasingly sharp, reverberating sound.

Pooling their scant resources, Kitson and Jemima had managed to purchase two unostentatious wedding bands upon their arrival in London. They had taken them immediately to a small church in an alley close to Ludgate Circus, where the vicar was known to be sympathetic to those in need of a rapid betrothal, carried out with the minimum of questions asked. The wedding breakfast had taken place at a modest supper-room on the Strand, filled with barristers' clerks. The first hours of marriage had been spent wandering the streets and parks of the Metropolis, savouring the sweet sense of being alone together, many miles from those who might lay a claim on them; the wedding night had pa.s.sed in a lodging house close to London Bridge station, chosen for its convenience for catching the first morning train to Dover. Neither of them had spoken much throughout this time. It was as if both were a little dazed by the audacity of their actions. They had eloped. They had taken this great step together. They were united by it.

The marine air, after the thick atmosphere of Manchester, seemed to be almost miraculously free from taint. Kitson could already feel the salutary effect upon his injured chest. The pain had yet to disappear, but it was becoming bearable. He put the European almanac under his arm, just as the children at the rail rushed back inside, affording him a clear view of his wife. She was standing as far forward as she could, gazing at the dark, glittering waters beyond the Stromboli's bow; and at the huge open vault of sky above. The steam horn let out a blast, the note resonating through the deck-planks. Their vessel was starting to manoeuvre into the harbour, squat tug-boats paddling up to meet it. Slowly, the steamer rotated, the wind picking up and sweeping hard down the length of the deck. A corner of the almanac's cover bent open, the gust flicking swiftly through the thin pages within.

Jemima's bonnet came loose. With a cry, she turned and reached out, catching hold of it just before it was carried away into the sea. Seeing Kitson, she smiled, her auburn hair unfurling in the breeze; and he started down the deck towards her.

Author's Note

Although much of The Street Philosopher The Street Philosopher is based closely on actual events and a number of historical figures make brief appearances, both the main story and the princ.i.p.al characters are completely fictional. The 99th Foot (Paulton Rangers), in particular, is an invention, imagined as a typical line regiment in the Light Division of the British expeditionary armyalbeit one with some rather untypical officers. There was a 99th regiment in the British army at this time, but it spent the duration of the Russian war in Australia guarding the penal colonies. Also, although the Art Treasures Exhibition included numerous works attributed to Raphael, a depiction of Pilate washing his hands was not among them. No such painting has ever existed, and Queen Victoria's tour of the Exhibition went off without incident. is based closely on actual events and a number of historical figures make brief appearances, both the main story and the princ.i.p.al characters are completely fictional. The 99th Foot (Paulton Rangers), in particular, is an invention, imagined as a typical line regiment in the Light Division of the British expeditionary armyalbeit one with some rather untypical officers. There was a 99th regiment in the British army at this time, but it spent the duration of the Russian war in Australia guarding the penal colonies. Also, although the Art Treasures Exhibition included numerous works attributed to Raphael, a depiction of Pilate washing his hands was not among them. No such painting has ever existed, and Queen Victoria's tour of the Exhibition went off without incident.

Many sources were used in the writing of this book; all distortions and errors are, of course, my own. The Crimean sections owe an important debt to the Times reports of William Russell, with whom some of Cracknell's more admirable att.i.tudes originate, and to the many published diaries, letters and personal accounts written by the soldiers and civilians who were involved in the war, notably those of Nathaniel Steevens, Frederick Dallas, Roger Fenton and George Lawson.

Among the modern texts used, special mention must be made of Matthew Lalumia's Realism and Politics in Victorian Realism and Politics in Victorian Art of the Crimean War Art of the Crimean War, which first interested me in the representation of warfarevisual and verbalin the mid-nineteenth century press. A vital reference work was Alastair Ma.s.sie's A Most Desperate Undertaking: The British A Most Desperate Undertaking: The British Army in the Crimea Army in the Crimea, a catalogue of the 2004 exhibition at the National Army Museum in Chelsea. Also frequently consulted were volumes by Trevor Royle, Clive Ponting, J.B.R. Nicholson, A.J. Barker, Albert Seaton, Andrew Lambert and Stephen Badsey.

The ma.s.sive amount of contemporary literature generated by the Art Treasures Exhibition served as the foundation for the Manchester sections. This included the lengthy coverage provided by the Times Times, the Art Journal Art Journal and the and the Ill.u.s.trated London News Ill.u.s.trated London News; the enormous catalogue; the Art Art Treasures Examiner Treasures Examiner, the official magazine of the Exhibition published throughout its run; and the plethora of unofficial, slightly domineering guidebooks with t.i.tles like What to See and Where to See it What to See and Where to See it. Especially informative were Cornish's Stranger's Stranger's Guide through Manchester and Salford Guide through Manchester and Salford and and The The Visitor's Visitor's Guide to Six Days in Manchester Guide to Six Days in Manchestergeneral guides to the city produced to coincide with the Exhibition which provided a detailed and fascinating counterpoint to the famously grim portrait of mid-nineteenth century Manchester found in Friedrich Engels' The Condition of the The Condition of the Working Cla.s.s in England Working Cla.s.s in England.

Two modern histories were particularly helpful: The Public The Public Culture of the Victorian Middle Cla.s.s: Ritual and Authority in the Culture of the Victorian Middle Cla.s.s: Ritual and Authority in the English Industrial City 18401914 English Industrial City 18401914 by Simon Gunn, which introduced me to the concept of street philosophy, and Martin Hewitt's exhaustive study by Simon Gunn, which introduced me to the concept of street philosophy, and Martin Hewitt's exhaustive study The Emergence of Stability in the The Emergence of Stability in the Industrial City: Manchester 183267. Industrial City: Manchester 183267.

Thanks are due to my agent, Euan Thorneycroft, without whom it simply wouldn't have happened, and all at AM Heath; my editor, Susan Watt, whose guidance and incisive comments were instrumental in shaping the novel, and the team at HarperCollins; Emma Logan and Lorna Plampin, who waded through the first draft and offered early encouragement; Katie Espiner and Joy Chamberlain, for help and criticism in the initial stages; James Middleton, for those articles on the Crimea; the staff of the British Library and National Art Library; my mother and brother, for their unwavering support; and SLH, the best, always.

About the Author.

The Street Philosopher.

Matthew Plampin was born in 1975 and grew up in Ess.e.x. He read English and History of Art at the University of Birmingham and then completed a PhD at the Courtauld Inst.i.tute of Art, London. He now lectures on nineteenth-century art and architecture. This is his first novel.