Now she and Mrs Polley barged through the press of bodies in the cramped post office on Balaklava’s quayside. Everyone was here, from officers at Lord Raglan’s headquarters, to post NCOs from every regiment in the siege, to ragamuffin cabin boys off the merchantmen that crowded the harbour. The stone tiled-roof building had been a Russian official’s office for the administration of the port’s fishing—now it handled every communication for Britain’s army and navy in the Crimea. The floor was awash with mud and horse dung, the air heavy with bustling humanity that hadn’t glimpsed soap and water for a month or more.
‘Here, Mrs Keenan, here’s mail for the regiment from base hospital.’ Mrs Polley held a narrow sheaf of envelopes tied about with a piece of brown paper and red ribbon.
‘Let’s ge
