Path of the Tiger

by J M Hemmings

  William reached down inside his jacket and pulled up the locket with its portrait of Aurora. He flipped the locket open and stared into her eyes, trying to imagine that the daubs of paint were the real things.

  ‘How I wish I was in your arms right now, my love,’ he whispered, feeling the salt of tears burning at the corners of his eyes. ‘That’s how I want tae leave this world: in yer arms, auld an’ grey, an’ surrounded by our children an’ grandchildren an’ great-grandchildren, wi’ the sound ay birdsong and the bubblin’ ay a mountain brook outside, and the cracklin’ ay a hearthfire within. Wi’ a smile on me’ face as I gaze into those eyes ay yours, the beauty ay which age will surely ne’er dull. I dunnae want tae die here, like this, I dunnae want tae—’

  ‘What’s going on?’ he heard a voice say to his right.

  Paul.

  ‘We’re no’ gonnae advance,’ Paul continued. ‘I ca’ see it. Lord Raglan is shaking his head.’

  Murmurings started to flutter through the squadron, for Paul had not been the only one who had noticed Lord Raglan’s gesture of refusal.

  ‘Bollocks to that!’ Sergeant Fray roared, and the whole squadron could hear the scorn and disgust in his voice. ‘We’re ready and rarin’ to cut them Russians to pieces, yet we’re bleedin’ being made t’ stay ‘ere like a bunch o’ yellow-bellied cowards! Bah!’

  A rumble of complaints and curses rippled through the ranks, flesh-bouncing echoes of Fray’s outburst. William, however, breathed a sigh of relief and eased his sweat-clammy fingers off of his lance haft.

  ‘I’ll live another day,’ he whispered to himself. ‘One day closer tae seeing you again, my angel Aurora.’

  He slipped the pendant back inside his jacket and curved the corners of his mouth upward into a subtle, contented smile. Many thousands of men had died upon the battlefield this day, but he and his friends were still safe – safe for the time being, at least. Captain Morris came trotting back from his meeting with Raglan, and on his long face he wore a stormy scowl. Captain Liversage and the lieutenants of the 17th Lancers rode out to meet him, and William watched as Morris spoke a few gruff words to the others through gritted teeth; his frustration with being ordered to stay put was blatant. The officers then trotted back to their respective squadrons, and most of them sported similar expressions of anger and frustration on their visages. The exception, however, was Captain Liversage, who wore a look of cool and measured calm on his countenance. Liversage spoke a few words to Sergeant Fray and then galloped away. The sergeant sheathed his sabre, shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he did, and then turned around to face the troopers. His face was a contorted mask of crimson disgust and acute disappointment.

  ‘17th!’ he bellowed hoarsely, ‘Wheel your horses about left! We’re leaving!’

  ***

  Dearest Aurora

  Life is hard here, my love. I won’t get into the details of the drudgery of day-to-day life in the camps, the lack of sleep, the discomfort of the tents and the strange combination of boredom and fear when out on picquet duty, suffice to say that they are very trying on my spirit. Thoughts of you get me through these difficult times, though – thoughts of you will get me through anything, I sincerely believe.

  I’ve just returned from battle, at a place in the Crimea called the Alma River. That all happened yesterday, and what a day it was! I’ve never seen anything as horrific in all my life. Luckily for me, the cavalry didn’t take part in the battle (I hope that this letter gets by without being checked by anyone, as I’ll surely be accused of cowardice for uttering such a sentiment). We only watched as the infantry fought it out across the valley. It was strange, it was, trying to make out what was going on. Of course the officers all had their spyglasses and what not, with which they could see clearly, but to us regular troopers it just looked like a great swathe of toy soldiers, all swarming about in chaos in churning masses of red and grey.

  We hammered the Russians, we did. I know that many of their men, and ours, died that day. It’s a strange feeling, watching a man die like that, from a great distance, through a blanket of gunpowder smoke, with the booming of cannons and the crackling of muskets raging like a Highland thunderstorm all around. Ah, just writing that phrase makes me miss home, and makes me miss you even more than I already do, if that is even possible. My heart aches for you, my love. I see your face whenever I close my eyes. I see you standing in every shadow, and hear your laughter in the song of the birds in the trees, and feel your kisses in the wind brushing my cheeks. I dream of you every night, you know. I imagine that we’re back in the hills, by the waterfall, with the river king watching us from his secret chamber. Just you and I, my love, the only people for miles, under our blanket, beneath the million scattered diamonds that are the stars, those iridescent jewels shining so brightly against the cloak of night, stretched across that velvet sky above us. That’s where my heart will always be, Aurora, that’s where it’ll be, there with you, wherever else this body of mine goes. And you’re always here with me: in my heart, in my thoughts, in every breath that passes between these lips you are here, with my immortal soul.

  I wear your pendant around my neck all the time. I never take it off; I even kept it on me on the brink of battle. When I thought we were to make a charge, I took it out and looked upon your face. I had to; it reminded me why I’m here, why I’m doing this. It’s tough, my love, so tough, but I’ll get through it. I must. I know that as much as fate brought us together, fate will surely keep us together. It’s written in the stars, you and I.

  Remember that, Aurora: it’s our destiny to be together, to spend the rest of our lives together, to grow old and grey with one another and have children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. You’ll paint your pictures and I’ll write my poems, and we’ll have a wee garden with trees and flowers, and we’ll go out riding in the hills and forest every day. It’ll be wonderful. Thinking of this future with you is what is keeping me going through all of this madness and violence.

  I don’t belong here. I belong with you.

  I miss you enormously, and my heart is with you always.

  Your darling,

  William.

  William set his writing quill down and leaned back to stretch his arms. He closed his eyes and smiled, savouring the soothing sound of Andrew’s guitar playing. He then folded up the letter neatly, put it in an envelope and scribbled Aurora’s address on the front just as Michael and Paul stepped into the tent.

  ‘Oy Will, Andy,’ Paul said with an excited grin, ‘come out here fir a minute.’

  ‘What’s going on then?’ William asked, standing up and stretching his limbs out with a satisfied grunt.

  ‘Come on boyo, just come out an’ see,’ Paul urged.

  ‘Aye, come out here you two lazy bastards,’ Michael insisted. ‘You’ve got tae see this!’

  ‘All right all right,’ Andrew acquiesced as he carefully set his guitar down and stood up. ‘What are we looking at, then?’

  ‘Follow me,’ Paul instructed with a wry smile.

  William and Andrew followed Paul and Michael, and once they were outside, they saw right away what the two young men were so excited about.

  ‘What’s tha’ about now?’ William asked, staring at the massive covered wagon being pulled past their tent by two stout ploughhorses. The wagon had the look of a gypsy vardo, but it was not painted in the bright colours of that sort of vehicle, being finished instead with plain varnish over the bare wood. On the side, printed in yellow and gold lettering on the wooden panelling, were the words, ‘PHOTOGRAPHIC VAN’.

  ‘Photo … photographic?’ Andrew murmured. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I reckon it’s a new weapon, a secret weapon ay great power tae help us against the Russians,’ Michael suggested, the smug grin on his face evincing his faith in this theory of his. ‘Aye, this thing will win the war fir us, I’ll wager.’

  ‘I dunnae think tha’s a weapon, Mikey,’ Paul countered. ‘The chap driving t
he wagon looks like a civilian, does he no’?’

  ‘Er, why dunnae we just ask the driver, lads?’ William suggested before he strode purposefully over to the wagon as it trundled along the bumpy dirt track.

  ‘Hold on there Will!’ called Andrew, ever cautious, after him. ‘What if it is some sort ay secret weapon! We’ll get in trouble, we will!’

  It was too late to try to call William back now, though, for he had already stopped the driver, a pleasant-looking fellow of average height and build who sported a bushy auburn beard. He looked to be in his late thirties and wore a well-made if somewhat workmanlike khaki suit. He doffed his hat, which matched his suit, as William approached.

  ‘Excuse me sir,’ William said with an amicable smile, ‘but my friends and I were just wondering, like, what this phot-, photogra—’

  ‘What my photographic van is, Private?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir, tha’s what we’d like tae know, if it’s not tae much bother fir you tae tell us.’

  The man beamed a smile at William, obviously delighted at having someone take an interest in his area of expertise.

  ‘No bother at all, Private, none at all! Have you never heard the term “photograph” before?’

  ‘No, I havenae.’

  ‘Perhaps you have heard of daguerreotypy?’

  ‘Oh aye, aye!’ William answered, his eyes lighting up with excitement. ‘It’s tha’, um, machine tha’ can capture an image more lifelike than any painter! I’ve heard talk ay such things, but have ne’er seen a daguerrotype picture before. Everyone has told me tha’ they’re quite wondrous, though. So tha’s what you’re doing here, making daguerrotype images?’

  ‘Close,’ the man said. ‘I use a different technique though, something new and more advanced than daguerreotypy. However, I’ll not bore you with technical talk. My name is Roger Fenton, by the way, and I’ve been appointed to document this war via my art form – or, should I say, the fusing of art and the latest advances in the technological and scientific fields! Now, who might you be, good Private?’

  ‘I’m Private William Gisborne, sir, ay the 17th Lancers.’

  ‘There’s no need for this “sir” business, lad, I’m not a military officer. Tell me, would you and your friends like to pose for me? I’ve been taking photographs of the soldiers and officers of a number of the regiments stationed here, but I have yet to capture an image of any soldiers of the 17th.’

  ‘Pose fir you, Mr Fenton? Aye, aye! Does tha’ mean you’re going tae make a daguerrotype image ay us?’

  Fenton nodded, smiling eagerly.

  ‘Yes, of course! Not a daguerrotype, though, but a photograph, which, as I said, is rather similar. Would you be interested in doing this?’

  ‘Aye, we most certainly would! Let me tell the lads, then,’ William said.

  He went back and told the others about Fenton’s request, and all of them were eager to participate in the creation of the photograph. They approached the wagon, and he showed them a few photographs that he and his assistant had already produced, and all four of them were in awe of the amazingly lifelike images, regardless of the fact that the photographs only depicted the scenes they had snatched from reality in tones of sepia, rather than those of the vivid palette of the true colours of life.

  ‘Light, lads, is of the utmost importance when capturing an image via photography,’ Fenton explained to the gathered men. ‘And I do believe that we’ll have an ideal lighting situation in around fifteen minutes, when these clouds move across the sun, as they seem likely to do. As you’re a cavalry regiment, could one of you get a horse to pose on?’

  ‘I’ll go get my boy River King right now!’ William cried, his eyes bright and his grin toothy as he dashed off to fetch his horse.

  ‘Excellent,’ Fenton said. ‘The rest of you, please get your weapons and dust your uniforms off. This image of you four may be seen by tens, if not hundreds of thousands of good Britons back home, and I’m sure you want to look your best.’

  ‘Aye sir!’ the men said, all fired up with enthusiasm and excitement. All three hurried back to the tent to prepare themselves for the taking of the photograph. Paul, Andrew and Michael returned a few minutes later, grinning with expectant glee and kitted out in their full dress uniforms: gleaming, flat-fopped black czapkas featuring the Death’s Head logo in bronze, rich navy blue jackets, fronted by a diagonal band of white, with a thick gold and red belt across the waist, and long dark grey trousers with a white vertical stripe on the outsides. Their black shoes had been polished to a brilliant gloss, and they held their swords and lances proudly in their hands, which were covered with long white gloves that reached almost up to their elbows.

  While Fenton arranged the three soldiers into a pose, William approached, riding River King and looking just as resplendent as his friends. Fenton’s assistant, meanwhile, was setting up the camera, which was a bulky box constructed of brass and wood, with a large, thick black cloth covering the back. To take the photograph, he had prepared a large glass plate that had been wet coated with the necessary chemical concoction.

  ‘Ah, and here’s the lad on the horse to complete the picture,’ Fenton said, grinning. ‘Come William, was it? Stay on your horse, yes, that’s right, and stand right here, behind your companions. That’s it, that’s it. Right there, just like that.’ Fenton had seated Paul and Andrew on a large rock, while he had had Michael stand to the right of it. Filling up the background of the composition was William, atop River King. ‘Now lads, you’re going to have to remain absolutely motionless for a good minute while the light and chemicals interact and work their magic,’ Fenton continued, his ever-present smile smoothing out into a more serious expression now. ‘And please, this is no time for mucking about! We cannot afford to waste this shot; these chemicals are expensive, and the process of creating a good, clear photograph is a complex and finicky one. Therefore, I must ask you all to pick a facial expression before we begin, and wear it on your face as unmovingly if it were a wood-carved mask, incapable of even the slightest hint of change. I cannot stress how important it is to remain completely motionless during the process of taking the photograph. Do you all understand?’

  ‘Aye!’ the men cried in unison.

  Their enthusiasm seemed to satisfy Fenton.

  ‘Good, good. Are you ready to begin, then, lads? My assistant has almost finished his preparations.’

  ‘Pardon me sir,’ Michael asked with a cheeky grin, ‘but what expressions should we be wearing, as if they were “wood-carved masks”? Could I stick my finger in Pauly’s ear, and pinch Andy’s nose?’

  All of the men chuckled, but Fenton frowned and huffed.

  ‘Trooper, this is not the time for japes and jokes! Please! Wear an expression upon your face that displays the pride you have for your regiment, and the solemnity and gravitas of your commitment to serving Her Majesty Queen Victoria and the glorious British Empire! Remember, hundreds of thousands of people in Britain will see your faces. Do you not wish to represent your regiment with pride?’

  ‘Aye, aye,’ Michael murmured, a little crestfallen. ‘We’ll do tha’, sir.’

  He and the others took a moment to compose themselves, and then all four men donned expressions of calm, almost severe focus and dignity, which they held unwaveringly in place.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ Fenton grunted, rushing over to the camera. ‘Hold that pose!’ he ordered as he ducked under the black cloth. ‘Do not move a muscle, not until I tell you to!’

  The men waited in sombre silence as the photograph was taken, the seconds inching by with painful slowness. William soon felt a maddening itch developing just inside his collar, and it took every ounce of self-control he possessed to avoid jerking his arm around and scratching vigorously at it, but he managed to hold his pose, as motionless as any marble statue, for the minute or so it took Fenton to complete the procedure.

  ‘Gentlemen!’ he eventually called out, ‘it is done! You may move now.’

  He emerged
from behind the camera and hurried over to hastily shake each man’s hand.

  ‘Thank you, thank you good soldiers of the 17th,’ he said. ‘My assistant and I need to process the photograph right now, as time is of the essence, so I must bid you farewell.’

  ‘Will we get tae see this photograph?’ William asked as he dismounted River King.

  ‘Oh yes, if you come and seek me out in a few days,’ Fenton answered cheerfully. ‘But I will certainly be too busy to seek you out, so if you wish to see it you must come to me.’

  ‘We’ll dae that sir,’ Paul said, his tone a curious mix of awe, gratitude and excitement. ‘We’ll no’ miss the chance tae seeing ourselves in one ay those wondrous photographs ay’ yours, no!’

  They bade Fenton farewell, chatted amongst themselves for a while, and then headed back to William’s tent to sit down for a while. Andrew resumed playing guitar, while Paul and William sprawled themselves out on their cots. Michael, however, took his sword out and swung it a few times through the air, slashing at invisible enemies with precise, expert strokes.

  ‘Cor, but I was bloody rarin’ to charge in there and give those Russians what for!’ he growled. ‘I cannae believe old Raglan denied us the chance tae christen our lances and sabres!’

  ‘Dunnae be too eager for a fight,’ Paul countered dryly as he stretched his arms and cracked his knuckles. ‘I’m no’ quite ready tae give up this life fir Queen an’ country just yet. I quite enjoy the feeling ay being alive, I dae. And believe you me, I saw just how many ay our infantry boys were shot down by the Russians out on the Alma today. I dunnae how much I fancy my luck against a volley ay musket balls or an explodin’ artillery shell. It is, after all, a matter ay luck, is it not?’

  ‘You’re soundin’ like a bloody yellow-bellied meater, you are!’ Michael growled. ‘It’s about courage! It’s about fearlessness in the face ay mortal danger, an’ having a strong, unwavering sword arm! That’s what’ll get you through an’ make a man out ay you!’