The man telling the story cleared his throat. He had spoken with fervour and pride. The initial expression on his face of a memory well remembered and shared changed to one of despair.
“Equipment jingled, horses whickered and the men shared words of glory. That was until the first shell burst in the air about 100 yards in front of us. The next one dropped in front of Nolan's horse and exploded on touching the ground…”
Clementine froze on the spot. She stood a few paces away from the table. The man with the East-London accent spoke in almost a whisper. It was as if he considered his tale too fragile to share.
“He uttered a wild yell as his horse turned around, and, with his arms extended, the reins dropped on the animal's neck, he trotted towards us, but in a few yards dropped dead off his horse. I do not imagine that anybody except those in the front line of the 17th Lancers, the 11th Hussars and 13th Light Dragoons saw what had happened – I did though and good old Major Whitt Whittaker, right before me, did too.”
She studied the burly man. She did not recognize him. He was tall, pug-eared and he had an affable face. He wore the same uniform Stirling had worn before she had had to remove it. This man was from the Light Brigade – Clementine was certain of it. He had shared in her fiancé’s ordeal.
“We went on. When we got about two or three hundred yards farther, the battery of the Russian horse artillery opened fire. I do not recollect hearing a word from anybody as we gradually broke from a trot to a canter, though the noise of the striking of men and horses by grape and round shot was deafening…”
The stranger took a swig of water. Clementine’s gaze left his face to look at Stirling. For the first time since seeing him again, there was an emotion on his face. His eyes had watered over almost as if he had been crying. It warmed her heart that there was still something left of him. She swore to herself that she would have to double her efforts from then on.
“When clear again of the guns, I saw two or three of my fellows making their way back, and as the fire from both flanks was still heavy, it was a matter of running the gauntlet for the second time. I have not sufficient recollection of minor incidents to describe them, as probably no two men who were in that charge would describe it in the same way.”
He shuddered. Clementine could see that the memory taxed him a great deal. She asked herself had Stirling taken part in that charge? Seeing him, she immediately knew. He had probably led from the front.
“When I was back pretty nearly where we started from, I discovered I had been carrying a man in my arms the entire length of the ravine. It was he…”
He pointed at Stirling, making Clementine gulp.
“He’s a hero, he is. One of the last times I remember seeing Major Whitt Whittaker during the charge was when he rode down a Russian gunner on foot, aiming at me with his carbine.”
The teller spread his arms for effect.
“He was just within reach of the Major’s sword, and he struck him across his neck. The blow did not do much harm, but it disconcerted his aim and I am still here to tell the tale and have hardly a blemish on my person to boot.”
The group had already grown in size to include every individual in the mess hall. “Go on, Rory. Get on with it. It’s the first time any of us have heard much about it,” said one of the soldiers.
“All right, all right. Is a man not allowed a drink?”
“Not when he’s speaking to a bunch of lads who have been starved of any information from the front.”
“What happened next, was that a mounted gunner struck my horse on the forehead with his sabre. Spurring Cloud, the Major half jumped, half blundered, over the fallen horses and cannon thrashing the man threatening me – saved my life he did. After that, I only remember finding myself alone among the Russians trying to get out as best I could…”
“What happened next?”
“Aye, where was the Major? Do ye remember where ye found him?”
More questions followed. Rory Bennett, a man from the rookery of Saint Giles was a hero of the empire. And more importantly he was a survivor. Unlike his poor friend Jake Metcalfe who lay dead on the field with two thirds of the brigade.
Rory brushed away a tear. Clementine saw that Stirling had also moved. He too wiped his face of the signs of sadness that had wetted him.
“In spite of the attempts of the Russians to cut him down, Major Whitt Whittaker still rode on. He headed for Lord Cardigan who was surrounded by the enemy, brandishing his sabre like the lion he is…”
There was a deep murmur from everyone except Clementine. She had expected the pompous fool to turn and gallop off at the first sign of trouble. She had misjudged him. As it turned out, Cardigan was true to his word. The commander of the Light Horse remained with his men to the end.
“Like a demon, the Major fought so hard, cutting the general free from the melee. The Major slapped Cardigan’s horse on the rump so that it bolted back in the direction it had come. Before the Major could follow him, the enemy killed his mount, catapulting him into the air until he vanished amongst the dead.”
Rory looked around him. “It was then, I lost time. I can’t remember what happened next. I must have gone back to get the Major – I don’t know for sure. How I did it with him surrounded by all of those Russians, I will never know. I think that every man who was engaged in that disastrous affair at Balaclava, and who was fortunate enough to come out of it alive, must feel that it was only by a merciful decree of the Almighty Providence that he escaped from the greatest apparent certainty of death which could possibly be conceived.”
“Somehow I had gotten back to the safety of our lines. When I was there, I found that I was the only senior person around. Any surviving officers were either wounded or distraught. I looked to Cardigan, but he too was a broken man. He stared down the valley in search of his beautiful brigade. Consequently, I took command until Lord Lucan arrived. He was just as much in shock as the rest of us.”
“It sounds like the bravest and most ignominious moment in our military history,” said Clementine.
“You have no idea, woman! How dare you even speak of it? Hundreds of the finest horsemen perished that day because of an ill-fated command. You are a woman, you would never understand!”
Stirling looked away before their gazes met. His expression had been so hard. There was none of the love he had shown her back in England. It was like he had perished with some of the six hundred and another man inhabited his body.
Without waiting for the tears to claim her, Clementine placed the plate with his lunch on the table and walked away. She did not know whether to feel sad or angry. How dare he speak to her in such a manner. He had no idea what she had been through since arriving at the Scutari Hospital. It had been a living hell. Clementine was about to turn back and tell him her mind when a stern voice stopped her.
“I don’t think that would be a particularly good idea, Clementine. I saw and heard what happened. It is a very good thing,” said Florence.
“Good thing? Did you hear what my fiancé said to me? How harsh he was.”
“Yes, I did. And weren’t those the first words since he got here and most probably before that since after the accident as well?”
“I suppose so.”
“Sometimes victory comes to us in the strangest of guises. It is up to you, Clementine, to do something with it.”
“What can I do? The man I love thinks I am some sort of half-wit. He doesn’t respect me. He won’t even try to talk to me.”
Florence placed a soothing hand on her shoulder. “Keep at it. Don’t give up and you may even get him to walk again. He needs to hear the right things from you or from someone. The reason he cannot walk is because he has lost the will to do so. We have to try and find that will again.”
Before Clementine could turn away, Florence spoke again. “Clementine, remember that love never comes one way. On occasion, God wants us to prove to Him that we are worthy of that gift He has bestowed upon us – being in love is
the easiest thing in the world. Loving somebody is not. It is by loving someone that we discover everything about them. The trick is to continue loving when we find things we don’t necessarily like, for in time, the good things that outweigh will be upon you again soon.”
Clementine nodded weakly. She was still sad. Her entire life seemed like this impossible ordeal.
“Loving someone when things are easy is simple. Loving somebody when things get difficult, that’s when it gets complicated. You have to do that, Clementine, if you ever want to marry, Stirling. You will get through this. You must have faith.”
With those final words, Florence left. Clementine knew that her mentor was right. She and Stirling had only ever had halcyon days so far. It was still early on in their relationship to be confronted with something so sinister as being handicapped and hostility. Yet, maybe it was best to get that out of the way now. That was better than later in life.
Chapter 29
“Here’s the lad,” said Rory, rolling Stirling into the room Clementine had set aside for their therapy session. “Come on, sir. There’s a good gentleman, say hello to your ladylove.”
Stirling didn’t say a thing. He didn’t even look in her direction.
“He’s a little grumpy this morning, like. It tends to get better in the afternoons. I find he enjoys it when I talk of the charge.” Rory shook his head in despair. “Sometimes, I think he wished that I would have left him there to die.”
Clementine pressed her lips together. “I never did thank you for saving his life, Mr Bennett.”
“Think nothing of it, Miss. He’s a good man, he is. It’s because of him I can ride a horse so well.” He thought a moment. “Oh, and I’d be honoured if you’d call me Rory. All my mates do.”
Clementine giggled. “Am I your mate now?”
“Yes, ye are.”
“Then, I’d be delighted to call you Rory.”
The pug-eared man beamed at her. “Good. I suppose ye will be wanting to get started on him. He mentioned that he occasionally feels numbness and tingling in his legs. I don’t know what to make of that, but maybe you do.”
“He spoke to you?” Clementine was surprised. She expected he only vented anger and not words about his discomfort.
“Aye, he does. Coming to think of it. He told me that yer sister is married to the Captain – Captain Royce Ryder. I just wanted to tell ye that he is alive and well. Somehow, he survived that terrible charge. I don’t know how he did it but he did.”
Clementine’s hands flew to her mouth. She had forgotten all about poor Royce because of all of the excitement concerning Stirling. “Oh, I am so happy. Thank you, Rory.” Totally forgetting about Victorian poise, she took the big man into her arms, kissing him on the cheek.
“I am happy to be of service,” he said, blushing.
“Would you mind staying here for the session? I think having you around might be of some use to Stirling.”
“Of course. I’d love to help the man who helped me so often. And besides, I am to be shipped back to the Crimea again by the end of the week. It appears they still need every able-bodied man.”
“Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,” said Clementine.
“So am I. This is not because I worry about being deployed. I very much doubt the cavalry will see much action anymore. War has changed. In future, it will be all about the artillery and the infantry. I only hope I can go home to my wife and children soon. Anyway, I am babbling on when we should be working on good Stirling here.”
Clementine nodded. “Yes, let’s get started.” She turned to face Stirling. “Stirling, can you point your toe?”
“This is the same waste of time as every day. No, I damn well cannot,” he hissed.
Clementine flinched. However, this time, she did not feel hurt. Hearing him speak, no matter how disharmonious, was better than silence. “At least try,” she insisted.
“Show your fiancé what your capable of, sir,” added Rory.
Stirling gave him a hostile look, making the other man shrug nonchalantly.
“That’s the spirit, sir. Nothing like a bit of anger to get the blood up.”
Clementine saw him exhale a deep breath as she imagined him coming to terms with the logic in Rory’s words. Stirling’s foot lay inert but his face told Clementine that he was at least trying. When she pressed a blunt pin to his leg, he could not feel it. When she applied a vibrating tuning fork to his skin, he felt nothing below the waist.
From what she had heard so far, she knew that the power to move or perceive sensations were things over which both the conscious and subconscious mind had some control. So next, she tested the things where this was not the case. Despite the lifelessness of his legs the reflexes reacted, as they should. Also, the tone of his limbs felt normal.
It felt strange to touch him again. Stirling did not react. His face was the same passive tapestry it had been since his arrival in Constantinople with the exception of the time he snapped at Clementine. Rory watched on in silence. The concern written on his face was difficult to miss.
When Clementine had nearly finished the examination, she asked him to try one more time. Stirling had laughed at her. Seeing an emotion, no matter how poisonous, was better than the passivity he constantly displayed. It showed that some things could still affect him. It was then she was certain that the man she loved would walk again. His affliction was self-created. Knowing this made her angry.
How dare he luxuriate in self-pity! Men were dying out there. Her colleagues and she worked day in and day out to ensure that everyone was well cared for. What did he do? Nothing but wallow in defeatism. Rory had been there and Royce was still there. They had not succumbed to this.
“Get up,” she snapped.
Her sudden change of mood startled Stirling. Rory looked at her with a questioning gaze on his face.
“You are a Major in the Eleventh Hussars and not some idle deadbeat on the streets of London. Now, come on, show me what an English soldier can do!” Clementine had placed her hands on her hips to make her point.
“I know what you are trying to do,” he sneered.
“Do you really? I frankly don’t care what you know. All I want is for you to stop playing about. You have no physical injuries. Your problem is purely psychological. In other words, you created it in your mind.”
“What would you know about that anyway? You were not there…it was hell.” Stirling eyes glazed over again.
“No, I was not there, but he was.” Clementine pointed at Rory. “He rode with you and saw the same horrors. You saved his life. Where is that man, Stirling? Where is the man I fell in love with? Where is the brave hussar who saved this man’s life? Where is the man who saw his commanding officer in the midst of danger and acted? Show him to us, Stirling.”
She could see the conflict play in his mind. His lips shuddered and curled into a sneer. Clementine could not tell whether it was out of fear, pain or newly birthed determination. Maybe, he was just thinking up another verbal outburst to hurl at her.
Her gaze slipped to his hands. His knuckles were white with the tension. He held on to the armrests on his wheelchair, gripping with angry fingers. “I can’t do it,” he hissed. I will never walk again.”
“Spoken like a man who has already given up. That is not what I saw in your eyes when you proposed to me, Stirling. You believed the world was yours that day – that I was yours. I am, Stirling. I love you. Now, be strong for me, for you…for us.”
Stirling pressed his lips together. What she had said was right. It had been too long now. He had been stuck in limbo between wanting to die and only partially wanting to live. Seeing his beautiful fiancé was reason enough to want to live. He had done his bit for his country. There were even rumours that he would receive the Victoria Cross for saving Bennett’s and Cardigan’s lives – it was a great honour that only a few men ever attained.
Even if he could never walk again, the pleasure of handing back the white feathers to his father an
d brothers would be worth it. He looked his fiancé in the eyes. Their greyness lured him in with silvery intent. She was a sight for sore eyes – her exquisite golden hair, her cordate face and that cute pixy’s nose – it was as if he saw her for the first time – it was like the day of his friend Royce’s wedding when they had met for the first time.
He loved this woman with all of his heart. He would be damned if he ever let her get away and least of all would he let himself be the reason for it. It angered him that he had let her see him like this. He had been a snivelling wreak, suffering from one of the most despicable sentiments: self-indulgence of the worst kind.
Stirling still gripped the handles on the chair. He pressed down, forcing his body up with all of his strength. He looked into her eyes, drawing in the strength from her hopeful gaze. With one last heave and a bellow of triumph, Stirling stood.
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 52