Path of the Tiger

by J M Hemmings

  The buffeting was now like hundreds of invisible fists and boots, all stomping and kicking at full force at once. As he started to slip into the chaos of an uncontrolled tumbling roll, however, over the howling roar of the wind in his ears came the sound of Paola’s voice, as faint as a croaky whisper.

  ‘The Huntsmen,’ she gasped, ‘it was … my fault.’

  Then her arm slipped away from his neck and her legs released his waist, and in an instant the weight of her on his back was simply gone.

  ‘NOOO!’ Zakaria roared into the raging wind, even as he averted catastrophe and stabilised his flight.

  As he hurtled through the bend, he managed to shoot a glance half-behind him out of the corner of his eye, and he saw a white plume of water splashing up from the river a hundred yards back, and his heart sank as he realized that that was the last they would ever see of Paola.

  PART TEN

  35

  WILLIAM

  September 1854. Alma River, The Crimea, Ukraine

  ‘Bugger it, I want tae be down there in the thick ay it, no’ up here watching it unfold!’ Michael growled through gritted teeth.

  ‘Keep your bleedin’ trap shut, trooper!’ Sergeant Fray shouted, transfixing Michael with a murderous stare from the front of the line. ‘We advance if and when the command is issued, and until then you’ll bloody well remain in formation. Now shut it!’

  ‘Sergeant!’ a sharp voice barked. ‘There’s no need for such language. We are gentlemen, are we not?’

  ‘We are, sir,’ Sergeant Fray grumbled. ‘Apologies, sir.’

  Captain Liversage, a tall, thin officer of the 17th in his early sixties, whose face still glowed with youthful handsomeness despite his advanced years, nodded and impaled the sergeant with an icy, almost accusatory smile. On his narrow face, the most dominant features were a striking pair of deep-set green eyes, and a broad and bristly salt-and-pepper walrus moustache that was draped over a broad mouth that seemed ever on the verge of breaking into a mischievous smile.

  ‘As you were, Sergeant,’ Captain Liversage said coolly as he trotted off on his horse.

  Far below them, across the Alma river valley, a battle was raging. William craned his neck and tried to make sense of what was going on through the hanging haze of gunpowder smoke. From what he could tell it was unbridled chaos; through what small gaps appeared in the clouds of smoke he could only barely discern a line of red-coated British troops advancing on the grey-clad Russians, with each side pouring deadly volleys of musket fire into the ranks of the other as they danced this deathly waltz. From this distance it seemed as if the men were mere toy soldiers in the sandpit of some cruel, spoiled child, who would throw some down and trample them into the dust on a whim, and kick and scatter others about in a wrathful tantrum.

  ‘But they’re no’ toys,’ William whispered as he watched in silent horror. ‘Each one ay them tiny red an’ grey figures is a man. A man, just like me…’

  ‘Indeed, my boy,’ an intruding voice commented. ‘Each has his own likes and dislikes, his own hopes and dreams, a family or a girl somewhere to whom he has given his heart, and perhaps young ones who yearn for his return. But no return shall come, shall it? Those toy soldiers we see falling in the dust over yonder, never to rise again – all those hopes and dreams floating about their heads will be lost forever, evaporating into the aether as their souls fly from this field of war. The wives shall grieve and mourn, and the children shall weep for their fathers whose corpses lie unmarked in a pit in some far-off land. Such is war, my boy, such is war. But who are we to question the workings of the Empire, and the command of our glorious Queen? We must play our part for Queen and country, and play it with courage and honour.’

  William looked up in surprise, not having realised anyone was close enough to have heard him talking to himself, and saw Captain Liversage peering intently at him.

  ‘I, er, my apologies fir speakin’ out ay turn, sir,’ William stammered, never having spoken to an officer of such high rank before.

  The Captain smiled and leaned over from his jet-black stallion to place a gentle, reassuring hand on William’s forearm, resting his other hand on the ornate pommel of his sabre, sheathed on his hip.

  ‘Fear not Private, I took no offence, and I’m a man of more indulgence than your blustery sergeant over there. You remind me of myself when I was your age, in fact. I felt the same sentiments, I did, as I watched Waterloo unfolding before me. Ye gods, was that a battle! I was a young man serving in the Scots Greys then, and a mere lieutenant in rank. When we charged Napoleon’s army, I was convinced I’d be done for. The roar of the cannons, the crashes of musket volleys, the screaming of the shells exploding and the anguished cries of the dying resounding all about me, by Jove it was sheer madness! And then when we clashed with the armoured French Cuirassiers, the sound of our sabres ringing off their steel breastplates and swords as we hacked and slashed at them was as the hammering of a thousand blacksmiths at a thousand forges.

  Indeed, it is at once terrifying and exhilarating to be in the thick of battle, my boy. At Waterloo I took two musket balls and seventeen sabre cuts, the scars of which I still bear to this day, some forty years after the fact. I do not know how many Frenchmen I cut down and ran through, but the good Lord knows that by the time we limped off that field I had broken my own sword and the sabre of a fallen comrade I had picked up, and my right arm was so utterly spent in its capacity to work that I could not even lift a flask of water to my lips to drink.’

  ‘Sir,’ William ventured cautiously, ‘um, d’you ever think about the soldiers you killed?’

  Captain Liversage’s lips curled into a strange and eerie half-smile, and something uncanny gleamed in his eyes.

  ‘Their faces have not left my dreams for forty years, and I doubt they ever will. You’d best prepare yourself for that.’

  William swallowed uneasily, and a chill rippled down his spine.

  ‘Aye … aye I’ll try tae do that, sir.’

  ‘Very good, very good. Tell me, Private, what is your name?’

  ‘Private William Gisborne, sir.’

  Captain Liversage nodded contemplatively.

  ‘Gisborne eh? I’ve seen you handle a horse on the training grounds on occasion. You ride with the expertise and finesse of a grandmaster, despite your youth.’

  William blushed; he wasn’t used to compliments these days.

  ‘I, er, thank you, sir. I just love tae ride is all, sir.’

  ‘As do I, my boy, although I dare say I’m not quite as good at it as you are, despite my years of experience. Look to me when we charge, Private Gisborne. Should my mount be shot out from under me, I’ll expect you to help me out, eh?’

  William nodded and saluted stiffly.

  ‘Aye sir! I’ll aid you in whatever way I can, sir,’ he declared in as confident a tone as he could put on.

  ‘Good man, good man,’ Liversage said, his eyes sparkling and his crow’s feet deepening as the corners of his mouth edged upwards. ‘Listen, my batman Bowker, who is my personal aide, he has, unfortunately, been taken with dysentery and is gravely ill. To be honest, I don’t think the poor fellow is going to make it. If you survive this battle, I’d like you to take his place.’

  ‘As your batman, sir?’ William, asked, taken aback with surprise.

  ‘Yes. I need an expert horseman to assist me in my duties. I like you, Private Gisborne, and I think you might be the right man for the job.’

  ‘I’d be most honoured, sir,’ William said slowly, still struggling to process this very unexpected turn of events.

  ‘Excellent. Good luck in the battle, Private.’

  ‘Thank you sir.’

  Captain Liversage trotted off, and as William watched him go, he wondered if he could live up to the promise he had just made, or whether he’d turn tail and flee should the time come to charge headlong into a wall of artillery and musket fire. The oddness of this new development perplexed him greatly, and he chewed on his
lower lip and squeezed his lance tightly, masticating on the conversation that had just taken place as he peered across the valley at the infantry battle, watching the distant soldiers staggering, stumbling and falling, with whatever cries or last words they uttered drowned out by the earth-shaking storm of cannon and musket fire.

  After a time, he felt as if he could not bear to observe the brutality of it all for a moment longer, so he closed his eyes and tried to immerse himself in the memories of his time spent with Aurora. He could not, however; the present was all too real for the time being, for all of his senses were under an all-out and relentless assault. Firstly, there was the stink of unwashed human bodies packed close together, sweating even more profusely now with an especially rancorous type of perspiration, brought on by the whirling tangle of fear and the presence of immediate, mortal danger. This smell was intermingled with the pungent, earthy scent of the horses and their own fear, physically manifested in the barrage of urine and faeces that was piling beneath their hooves. The acrid, sulphurous stench of spent gunpowder wafted from the valley up to the heights, adding to the concoction of unpleasant aromas.

  Even with his eyes closed, William could not ignore the feel of the lance gripped in his right hand, his fingers wrapped too tightly around the bamboo shaft, nor could he will away the weight of the sabre hanging in its scabbard on his left thigh, or wish himself out of the hot stuffiness of his constricting uniform.

  Beneath him his stallion stamped, snorted and whinnied, clearly unsettled by the rolling thunder of the battle in the valley. William had named his horse River King after the ancient skeleton Aurora had showed him, and he stroked the stallion’s neck and leaned forward to whisper soothing reassurances into the beast’s ear. He had been given River King, who was a stubborn, wild and unruly animal, partly because he was the best horseman in the squadron and thus most likely to be able to handle the beast, but also because Sergeant Fray disliked William and disapproved of his gentle nature and his lack of fighting prowess, and wanted to punish him for these traits by giving him the most unmanageable horse of the bunch, and thus try to humiliate or injure him.

  That particular jab on the part of Sergeant Fray had backfired, however. William, being a natural with horses, had quickly bonded with the implacable stallion, and had been able to coax the formerly irascible animal into becoming rather tame and balanced. Of course, the horse’s calm temperament was a temporary state, which only lasted when William himself was on River King’s back. When Sergeant Fray had tried to ride River King, the stallion had promptly returned to his former ways and had thrown him off, and it had taken all of William and his friends’ willpower to hold back their laughter as they had watched the harsh sergeant rolling and groaning in pain in the dust.

  This, of course, had only served to further stoke Sergeant Fray’s dislike of William, and for this engagement, William’s first ever battle, Fray had assigned him a place at the very back of the squadron.

  ‘I wouldn’t want a coward and weakling such as yourself anywhere near the front o’ the line, Gisborne,’ he had said. ‘That’s where the ‘eroes belong, the best o’ the best, the true lads o’ the regiment – not the bleedin’ likes o’ you. You’re an ‘opeless waste o’ skin, you are. I don’t ‘ow you convinced the recruiting sergeant to let you into this regiment, but if I ‘ad my way you’d be out on the streets tomorrow, stripped o’ this uniform you’re disgracing merely by breathing in it, and stripped o’ these weapons that a bleedin’ fishwife on the streets could wield wiff’ more skill and menace.’

  The rancorous, venom-laced words stung as freshly now in William’s memory as they had when Sergeant Fray had first spat them – perhaps even more so now that they had had time to percolate and ferment in his mind.

  ‘You’re a pathetic waste o’ life, Gisborne. You don’t deserve to wear the Death’s Head! You’re no Death or Glory boy, and you never bloody will be! Pray that a Russian musket ball or sabre blade catches you there at the back of the squadron and gives you a man’s death, something that can at least partly redeem your bleedin’ uselessness and cowardice. Pray for it, you useless bastard! And so ‘elp me God, if I see you turn tail and run when we charge, which I’ll wager you’re likely to do, I’ll wheel my horse about, chase you down and run you through myself. Wiff’ a bleedin’ smile on my face!’

  The words rang loudly and clearly in William’s head, their ire and scorn temporarily rising above the din of the battle, and anger flared up in the depths of his core. He snarled and tightened his grip on his lance, and as his gaze settled on the back of Sergeant Fray’s thick, crimson-burnt bull-neck, for the first time he actually fantasised about using his weapons on a living being.

  ‘How’d you like it if I stuck you wi’ this lance, Fray?’ he muttered under his breath. ‘If you really wanted tae run me through you’d have to bloody catch me first, you farty auld git, an’ we both know there’s no chance ay tha’ happening, not with me on River King here.’

  The wrath quickly left him though; William was not normally one for stewing over grudges, nor brooding over offences committed against him. Instead, he was most often the first to forgive and forget, no matter how grievous the damage done to him, and be merrily on his way.

  This, however, was an entirely different situation to any that he had previously experienced, and once more the chilling mist of fear draped its suffocating denseness over him, choking out all emotions and thoughts but those of immediate dread and doom. One could not attempt to share a joke with a charging Russian cavalryman, nor offer to buy the enemy rifleman an ale or two to get him to lower his musket. No, there was no way kindness, humility and a smile could win here. This was the domain of the blade and the bullet, and those two alone ruled this sphere as savage, merciless dictators.

  ‘There go our boys!’ Michael shouted, cheering ferociously as a surge of red-clad infantry troops charged the grey Russian lines and successfully broke through. ‘Give those Russian bastards hell, lads, give ‘em hell!’

  Next to Michael in the ranks was Private ‘Watty’ Watson, the heavily built, cantankerous drunkard of their squadron; Michael had displayed enough prowess with both sword and lance to be placed in the front row, alongside far more seasoned veterans, such as Watty.

  ‘I’d cheer louder if I were in the thick o’ it, me’self,’ Watson growled. ‘Stay by me’ side when we charge, Mikey, I’ll show you ‘ow to stick them Russian fairies wiff’ yer lance an’ sabre. We’ll ‘ave a jolly old time, we will! We’ll skewer us a pair o’ Russian kebabs, won’t we?’

  ‘Aye! We’ll stick those Russians like the pigs they are!’ Michael roared, and he punched his lance up in the air.

  ‘You two, shut yer bleedin’ traps, will ye!’ Sergeant Fray bellowed hoarsely. ‘I’ll send you both to the back o’ the pack, I will! You idiots may have ‘eart, but by Jove, you’re of nary a use to me if you’ve got no bleedin’ discipline! Now shut it!’

  ‘Sorry sir,’ Watty muttered.

  ‘The Russian lines have been broken!’ someone cried from the front. ‘They’re scattering like flies!’

  A vociferous cheer erupted through the regiment.

  ‘Now’s the bloody time to unleash the cavalry!’ Sergeant Fray roared, as he became caught up in the violent euphoria. ‘Come on you bleedin’ toffs, let us cut them Russians down!’

  A lean, severe-looking cavalryman, outfitted in the resplendent finery of an officer’s uniform, came trotting along in front of the vanguard: Captain Morris, commander of the 17th Lancers.

  ‘I appreciate your enthusiasm, Sergeant,’ he said to Fray in a voice that was soft and lilting, yet which carried an undeniable weight of authority. ‘I am as eager to charge the enemy as you and all of these fine fellows here, but we must have permission before we can move even an inch forward. I am off to meet with Lord Lucan, who as you know is in charge of the whole cavalry division, to ask the commander of the army, Lord Raglan himself, for urgent permission to pursue the Russians. Bugler, rid
e at my side. Sergeant Fray, ready your squadron to be at the head of the charge, and canter forward the moment the bugler sounds the signal, should Lord Raglan give it.’

  The bugler trotted out of the lines and followed Captain Morris as he took off at a gallop to where Lords Raglan and Lucan were surveying the battlefield.

  ‘This is it boys!’ howled Sergeant Fray, fired up with battle-fury. ‘Aim your lances true and ‘ack, stab and slash wiff precision! Each blow you strike should take a Russian life! Death or Glory!’

  ‘Death or Glory!’ the squadron thundered in response.

  William heard himself shouting the words, but it felt like he was observing the entire scene from some outside vantage point, as if he were merely floating above his body, already a ghost on his way to join those freshly made phantoms down there amongst the thousands of still-warm infantry corpses.

  ‘I dunnae want death, nor dae I want no bleedin’ glory,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I just want you, my sweet Aurora. Why did I ever dae this? How could I have been so bloody stupid? Now I’m going tae die, hacked tae death by some Russian’s sabre, or impaled by an enemy lance. Or perhaps one ay ‘em will blow me’ brains out wi’ a musket shot, or send a shrapnel shard straight through my heart…’