by J M Hemmings
‘Wait, wait, Whittington,’ Cardigan interjected. ‘Perhaps the lad is telling the truth. You know how many officers we lost at Balaclava, and by Jove we all know that those spots need to be filled somehow, if we are to continue fighting this war with any semblance of success, that is. Perhaps Liversage thought that this young chap had some sort of potential. Who are you, lad? Tell us now. And Whittington, give him a chance to explain himself, I implore you.’
‘Very well,’ Whittington grumbled. ‘But make it quick, boy, make it quick. None of us have time to waste!’
William spoke in as quick and calm a tone as he could put on.
‘My name is Private William Gisborne, sir. I was Captain Liversage’s batman, sir. I charged with him at Balaclava, and rescued him from the field.’
‘Ah yes!’ Cardigan cried, nodding knowingly. ‘His last will and testament was brought to me a few days ago, and I recall that in it he stated that his sword and sheath were to go to a Private Gisborne – you, evidently. It is a great honour for an officer to leave such a treasure to a mere private, to be sure, so he must have held you in high esteem. No mention was made of any promotion though, I’m afraid.’
‘He wrote a separate letter fir tha’, sir,’ William replied nervously. ‘It’s right here.’
William took the paper out of his jacket with trembling hands and handed it to Cardigan. Cardigan unfolded it and then pushed his reading spectacles up his nose, and for a few tension-brittle moments he peered at the letter while William waited with increasingly clammy palms, and his heart thudding frenetically in his chest.
It was not too long, however, before Cardigan looked up at William with a deep frown upon his long face. Dread sank its leaden weight into the depths of William’s belly as his eyes met Cardigan’s.
‘Is there a problem, sir?’ he managed to stammer.
‘This is a note written by your doctor, detailing the surgical procedures he performed. I’m sorry lad, but you’ve brought me the wrong paper.’
Panic gushed with icy force through William’s veins whilst simultaneously flooding his cheeks with a fever-hot blush.
‘I … sir, I promise you,’ he stammered, the panicked words seeming to tumble out of his mouth all at once, ‘Captain Liversage did write me a note in which he recommended me fir immediate promotion tae lieutenant, an’ he insisted tha’ I deliver it tae your hands personally, sir … I, um, I just, I must ha’ left it—’
‘You’re already demonstrating that you’re not fit to be an officer, boy!’ Whittington growled, his dark eyes fierce in his stormy face. ‘You approached us, with quite some gall I may add, and interrupted our business – business that I assure you is of the utmost importance, to hand Lord Cardigan a hastily scrawled doctor’s note! And this little bit of nonsense you outrageously claim represents Liversage’s last wish to have you granted an officer’s commission! How dare you! You’ve shown immense disrespect to—’
‘Calm down Whittington, calm down,’ Cardigan said. ‘The lad survived the charge at Balaclava, and by Liversage’s own hand it was written in his will that this private acted heroically. He’s been to hell and back, as I myself experienced on that fateful morning, and according to this doctor’s note he has survived some truly grievous wounds. Have some sympathy for the lad. I, in fact, am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.’ He turned to William and locked an intense stare into his eyes before continuing. ‘Go and find Captain Liversage’s note, Private. I trust you when you say you merely picked up the wrong letter, although you would do well to double check things in the future, as a good officer must both be sure of his actions and thorough in the execution of them. If you can bring me that original note, then we will see about this officer’s commission.’
Blood was pounding in William’s temples and his mouth was dry with anxiety, but he managed to nod and reply.
‘Yes sir. I’ll get it immediately, sir.’
‘If you come back without it, boy, I promise I’ll personally see you flogged senseless for wasting our time!’ Whittington snarled. ‘Now get out of my sight!’
This time Cardigan did not defend William, and his face took on a harder, colder look.
‘Like I said Private, bring me that letter and we’ll see what can be done. But I warn you: do not come back if you cannot find it. I’ll not be so lenient with you next time.’
‘Aye sir,’ William said with as much confidence as he could fake.
He turned on his heels and hurriedly hobbled off down the hillside, feeling the officers’ eyes drilling their annoyance into the back of his head as he left. Cold sweat trickled down his neck as he limped, and it nipped its chill deep into his spine.
With gritted teeth he fought through the pain that was throbbing through all of his limbs, and he willed himself to push on, despite the weakness that made his legs feel as if they were fighting their way through a tar pit rather than merely walking atop smooth grass.
His legs burned and his chest heaved as he staggered back to the medical tent. As soon as he arrived, he lurched inside and dropped to his knees beside the bed, digging through his pile of belongings with desperate hands.
‘Come on come on, where is it, where is it, where is it?!’
‘Looking fir this, Will?’
William spun around at the sound of the familiar voice, and saw a tall and imposing figure silhouetted against the morning sun, the outline of which was as instantly recognisable as his own reflection in a mirror. William’s heart soared with ebullient joy, and effervescent bliss flushed its rejuvenating heat through his veins.
‘Michael! Mikey, my brother, my boyo, you’re alive! Oh praise the Father above, you’re alive!’
William could not contain himself and he sprang to his feet. With spontaneous tears of joy streaming down his cheeks, and his aches and pains temporarily forgotten, he raced to the door to hug Michael.
Michael, it seemed, was not as enthusiastic about this reunion. With his face granite-hard and his eyes frost-cold, he turned away from William and pushed his friend’s arms away from the embrace he attempted.
‘This is what you want, is it no’?’ Michael asked, his voice icy and flat as he held up Captain Liversage’s letter.
William stepped back, feeling a strange cocktail of emotions percolating with burning discomfort in his gut.
‘Well aye Mikey, I dae need tha’, but let’s first—’
Michael seemed not to hear William’s words. He began reading out the letter in a tone of mock flattery.
‘I, Captain Mortimer Harold Liversage of the 17th Lancers hereby dae, upon this day, the 25th ay October ay the year 1854, recommend tha’ due tae valour an’ feats ay bravery upon the field ay battle at Balaclava Valley in the Crimea, Private William Gisborne ay the 17th Lancers be hereby promoted tae the rank ay lieutenant.’ He glared at William, and then repeated the last line. ‘Be hereby promoted tae the rank ay lieutenant,’ he sneered, his eyes dead as those of a marble statue.
‘Well, aye … aye, Mikey, Captain Liversage decided tae give me an officer’s commission. Is it no’ wonderful? Now Aurora and I can—’
‘Paul is dead because ay you! And so is Andrew!’ Michael roared abruptly, the vehemence of his fury shaking the very walls of the tent. ‘Dunnae you dare call me “brother”, dunnae you bloody fuckin’ well dare! Ever again! You self-serving, loathsome fuckin’ worm!’
A terrible stew of warring emotions churned a sickening, fever-like malady of almost paralysing nausea through every cubic inch of William’s body.
‘Mikey, wha’?! Wha’ are you on about?! Paul’s no’, Andrew’s no’—’
‘Yes they are!’ Michael howled vociferously. ‘They’re both dead! Dead an’ gone, forever! Dumped in a mass grave six days past, an’ now feedin’ the fuckin’ worms under the ground! But they didnae have tae be, oh no, they didnae have tae be! You had the chance tae save Paul on the field at Balaclava! I called out tae you, an’ you saw me! You saw him, you bloody well saw him being se
t upon by the Russians! An’ what did you dae?! You abandoned me, you abandoned him, an’ you charged off tae help your precious officer! Who’s bleedin’ well dead now anyway! All fir this! This fuckin’ scrap ay paper! Well look an’ listen, Private William Gisborne, because this is what I think ay your bleedin’ officer’s commission!’
With that Michael began ripping the letter into shreds as William watched on in immobilised horror, reeling both from the shock of Michael’s words and the sight of the letter – his very future, his only chance to marry Aurora – being torn to pieces. He knew that he needed to act, to do something, to say something, but his limbs, his muscles, his mouth, his mind even, all seemed frozen with an inertia that was utterly insurmountable.
When he finished tearing up the letter, Michael dropped the torn-up fragments of paper onto the grass and then ground them into the earth with the heel of his boot. After this, he locked his cold eyes into William’s.
‘You’re also dead tae me now. The auld William I knew died at Balaclava, like Paul an’ Andrew. You, whoever the fuck you are, you’re nowt but a fuckin’ stranger. I’ll ne’er forgive you for wha’ you did. Ne’er. I dunnae e’er want tae talk tae you again. Dunnae talk tae me, dunnae come near me, dunnae even look at me. E’er again. Because if you dae, by God in the heavens above, I’ll kill you. I’ll fuckin’ kill you wi’ my bare fuckin’ hands.’
Michael took one step closer to William, and then with a spiteful viciousness he spat into William’s face. He then turned around and limped out of the tent, and William was left alone, with warm spittle dribbling down his cheeks and chin. A crushing emptiness billowed its blackness through his body, his mind and his soul, like storm clouds seen through a god’s eternal eyes. William staggered back and collapsed onto his cot.
It was all over.
Everything.
He had lost the people who had meant everything to him, and now he was going to lose Aurora too. The recurring nightmares had not been dreams, but reality; he understood this now. Paul was gone, Andrew was gone, and now Michael hated him with a burning passion. And the one redeeming thing that could have come out of all this misery – the officer’s commission – it was gone too.
He’s right. They’re dead because of me. Because of my selfishness. I don’t deserve that commission anyhow. I don’t deserve anything … anything but death.
Like superheated steam building in a chamber with no outlet to vent its mad pressure, a force began to wreak its destructive havoc inside him with exponentially increasing fury. He jumped up from the cot – and then promptly doubled over and vomited. He retched and heaved until there was nothing more coming out of him, but then he retched some more anyway. He fell onto his side, his stomach muscles aching from the effort and his throat aflame from the bile, but despite this he somehow found the strength to try to rise. The pain of his wounds mattered not a jot now; the pain in his heart, the agony twisting his soul was all he could feel.
With violently trembling limbs he stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then staggered out of the tent. Outside he almost collided with a fresh-faced young lieutenant who was carrying Captain Liversage’s sword and scabbard.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ William stammered as he stumbled back from the near collision.
‘That’s quite all right, lad. Tell me, do you know where I can find a Private William Gisborne of the 17th Lancers? I was told he’d be in one of these medical tents.’
‘Tha’s me, sir.’
‘Oh, how fortunate!’ the man said cheerfully. ‘I was sent to deliver this to you. It’s an extraordinarily fine piece of equipment, by Jove! Here, sign this, and it’s all yours.’
William took the quill and inkpot the officer handed him, and with a shaky hand he signed his name on the paper. The officer smiled, took the paper back and handed William Captain Liversage’s sword and sheath.
‘Thank you sir,’ William murmured as he took the weapon.
‘Take good care of it, Private. You know how to clean and oil it, yes?’
‘I do, sir. I was Captain Liversage’s batman.’
‘Ah, excellent, excellent. Oh, and Lord Cardigan asked me to remind you to bring him some letter of Liversage’s post-haste. You know of what I speak, I trust?’
‘I, er, yes sir, I know about the letter he needs, sir.’
‘Good. With that I bid you farewell. Good day to you, Private!’
‘And tae you, sir.’
William gripped the sword, and a flood of memories surged through the turmoil of confusion in his mind. With fumbling hands, appendages that seemed almost numb and foreign, like mechanical items grafted onto his body, he attached the scabbard to the sword belt around his waist.
He stood there for a while, almost in a trance, unaware of where to go or what to do; everything had been ripped away from him, everything was lost. The warmth of the sun on his face did not register at all; everything was cold, the green, sun-washed landscape around him suddenly as frigid as the snowy wastes of the Arctic.
After some time, he turned and stumbled back into the tent. He stared for many long moments at the muddy, irreparable fragments of the torn-up letter in the mud, feeling nothing but an almost suffocating numbness. Eventually he trudged over to his bed, and began sifting listlessly through his possessions. There was Captain Liversage’s embalmed heart in the jar in the rosewood box, and there was the drawing – the last one Andrew had ever done – of the four friends, the crumpled paper stained with bloody fingerprints and splotches of mud. In addition, there was a water canteen, spare socks and underwear, a few items of cutlery, a knife, a handkerchief, and some other standard-issue items.
There were no doctors or their assistants in the tent, but one of the doctors had left his satchel next to one of the troopers’ cots. William walked over to it, dumped everything that was in the satchel out onto the floor, and then took it back to his own cot, where he stuffed all of his possessions into it. He then slung the satchel’s strap over his shoulder and marched out of the tent.
As he continued to float through this dream-like reality, he found himself heading over to a large pen where a number of horses were kept. He looked up at the sky as he limped along, and noticed that it seemed to be darkening with ever-denser masses of cloud. He then hobbled over to a teenage groom, who was busy polishing a saddle, and knelt down next to the boy. William heard himself speaking to the lad, but it seemed as if his voice was not his own, and that it was echoing from somewhere far away.
‘Excuse me lad, dae you know if a horse by the name ay River King is here?’
The boy paused in his task and looked up.
‘I don’t know none of their names, soldier. I just take care of ‘em and what not, I do.’
William nodded and stared out at the mass of horses for a while, his eyes locked on some undefined point in the far distance. Eventually he spoke again.
‘Are any ay these horses survivors ay the battle at Balaclava?’ he asked.
‘A few, yes. But not many, like. Most was killed in the Light Brigade’s charge, they was.’
‘Could I go inside the pen an’ have a look at the horses? I’m desperate tae find out about the fate ay my poor mount, who I rode in the charge. He brought me through the gates ay hell an’ deep intae its depths, an’ he carried me back, but I dunnae know what has become ay him.’
The boy’s expression changed at once.
‘You survived the Charge of the Light Brigade?! Cor blimey, you’re a proper hero!’ he exclaimed, a bright gleam of admiration sparkling in his blue eyes.
‘I’m no hero,’ William muttered darkly. ‘No, I most certainly am not.’
‘Whatever you say, soldier,’ the lad said, his eyes still aglow. ‘Well listen, I’ve got to get back to this work, I do. You can go in there and ‘ave a look at them ‘orses, I’m not going to stop you. We did have to shoot a fair number of them what survived Balaclava though, we did. There was some terrible wounds on the poor beasts, there was. Was kind
er to put ‘em out of their misery, see? You know what I mean, yeah? So don’t get your ‘opes up about finding your mount. Just warning you, like.’
‘I’ll keep tha’ in mind. Thank you.’
Overhead the clouds were growing heavier, and a chilly wind was starting to blow in from the north. As William made his way into the pen and started to wander through the mass of horses, small flakes of snow began to traverse their whirling, languid paths earthward from the heavens, dusting his head and shoulders with white.
He trudged through the pillars of living flesh, navigating his way through this equine labyrinth, drinking in the rich, earthy scents of the beasts, and recalling earlier, simpler days in the stables at Sir MacTaggart’s estate in the Highlands. It was impossible not to drown in the sea of memories; they were all he had now. The present was death made incarnate; he himself a mere wax replica of whatever he used to be; an inanimate thing somehow gifted with the ability to move, to be – yet not to be alive. The future was enshrouded in impenetrable blackness and suffocating shadow, altogether too terrifying and crushingly depressing to contemplate.
The snowfall grew heavier as William continued to push through the mass of beasts. Soon his head, shoulders and the ground beneath him were all dusted with a powdery covering of white.
‘Come on boy,’ he whispered under his breath. ‘Please be here. Please … I cannae truly ha’ lost everything.’
At that moment a familiar neigh broke the cold silence. With a sharply inhaled breath of suspense, William spun around to his left. The instant he saw River King standing there, staring intently at him with his big, soft eyes of chestnut brown, his heart soared, and he rushed over and embraced the horse’s neck, with tears rimming his eyes.
‘River King, River King, my beautiful, beautiful lad!’ he gasped. ‘I’m so happy tae see you, so happy, so happy!’