Path of the Tiger

by J M Hemmings

  An elderly doctor with gangly limbs and a wrinkled face, haggard with stress and exhaustion, was standing at the foot of the cot next to William’s. In his right hand he gripped a bloodied bone saw, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were entirely crimson; his freckled skin was slick and glistening gruesomely with chunks and bubbles of gore in the dim light of the tent. Beneath him, on the cot, lay a whimpering, deliriously muttering trooper, a young lad who couldn’t have been older than seventeen. One of his legs was little more than a horrendous mess of shredded meat, hanging veins and shattered bone. From the look of the wound the boy must have taken a direct hit from a shell or cannonball, and his gentle, almost bovine brown eyes bulged white with absolute terror and crushing agony in his cherubic face. William looked away, tasting the bitter bite of inexorably rising vomit.

  ‘I asked you a question, sir!’ the doctor repeated, shooting a withering glare at the sergeant. ‘Where are you taking that man?’

  ‘Captain’s orders,’ the sergeant grunted. ‘Go about your work, Doctor, I’ll have this one back to you soon enough.’

  ‘He shouldn’t be standing up in his state, much less going anywhere!’

  ‘Doctor, please sir, allow me tae go,’ William croaked. His voice was raspy and shaky, but also braced with a firm resolve. ‘I must see the captain in his last moments, sir. He was like a father tae me.’

  The doctor nodded reluctantly; he was too stressed and swamped with patients now to argue with anyone.

  ‘Very well,’ he muttered, ‘but come back here at once when you’re done. We need to sort those wounds out post-haste.’ The doctor then turned to his assistant, a pudgy, red-cheeked lad with a mop of ginger hair. ‘Come my lad, let’s prepare for the amputation. Hold him down, and hold him down fast. I’ll try to get through the flesh and bone as quickly as I can.’ The doctor passed a tightly rolled rag to his trembling patient. ‘Here you go, bite down on this while I cut. I’ll not tell a lie, this is going to hurt. A lot, I’m afraid.’

  William turned away as the young trooper clamped the rag between his teeth, and then allowed the doctor’s assistant to pin his arms down. He wanted to get out before the cutting started, so he hobbled over towards the entrance to the tent as fast as he could, leaning heavily on the sergeant’s shoulder for support. As he reached the door to the outside world, with the fading daylight already beginning its caramel melt into the gloom of dusk, he turned back and glanced one last time at the youth, lying pinned-down on the table.

  The doctor, grim-faced, had the blade of the saw pressed against the top of the boy’s thigh, and his assistant’s arms were statue-carven with tautly contracted muscles as he held the boy down with all of his might. The trooper’s eyes met William’s, and he fired him a look that was at once despair, horror, panic and dread, and this missile blasted straight through the membrane of William’s eyes into the core of his skull, where it thudded home and spread its macabre contagion in a brutal explosion.

  Empathy twisted a jagged blade inside his innards, and he gasped involuntarily. At that moment, the doctor began his cutting with a back-and-forth sawing that verged on the maniacal in its intensity. The boy’s eyes howled out sheer but silent agony, and William looked away, hurrying out of the tent before the inevitable screaming started.

  ‘How far, sir?’ he asked the sergeant as he hobbled along, with each step shooting pain up through his legs into his core.

  ‘Just over there,’ the sergeant answered, pointing at a tent up the hill. ‘Come on lad, we’ll get you there shortly. Lean on me more, if you must.’

  After a few minutes of struggle and toil William and the sergeant reached the tent in which Captain Liversage lay dying. The two of them stepped in and stood in sombre silence near the entrance while a doctor dabbed softly at the captain’s forehead with a damp rag. The captain turned to peer in the direction of the sliver of light thrown upon him by the parting of the canvas flap, and when he saw William his dulled eyes lit up in his wan face, which was deathly pale. He smiled and beckoned weakly to William.

  ‘Come here my boy,’ he croaked in a wheezy rattle. ‘Sergeant, please wait outside. Doctor, there is nothing more … you can do for me now … There are other patients … who may yet have the chance … to live … You should … attend to their needs … I think.’

  The doctor nodded, gathered his things together and left the tent, as did the sergeant, after giving Captain Liversage a quick salute. William limped over to the captain, trying his best to disguise his pain and sadness, and hoping that the grimace he wore wasn’t too painfully obvious in the half-light.

  ‘I’m glad that … you survived, William,’ the captain rasped. ‘Very pleased … indeed, my boy.’

  ‘Sir, I—,’

  ‘Hush my lad … Let me speak … while I still can … My time … is … short.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Get a piece of paper and a quill … from the table there … and write down exactly … what I … dictate.’

  ‘Aye sir, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Good … Are you ready?’

  William eased himself onto a stool at the table, wincing with pain but swallowing the cry as best he could. He dipped the quill into the inkwell and put it to the paper with a weak, shaky hand. It was taking every last ounce of energy he possessed to not pass out.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘This is the last … will and testament of … Mortimer Harold Liversage, a captain … of the 17th Lancers … I hereby bequeath … what coin, bonds … and savings I have to my name … to be equally divided … between my sister, Elizabeth Jayne Stephens … and her children … Charles Edmond Stephens … and Mary-Anne Hilary Stephens … My assorted items and trinkets … from India, are to … go to my old friend who served with me there … Colonel Peter James McHendry … My books … I will donate to my regiment … the 17th Lancers … I have no other possessions … Herewith ends my last will and testament … Do with my body as you will … It will be but an empty shell … when my soul moves on … to its next incarnation. Stop … Have you … recorded all of this … William?’

  William, who had been scribbling furiously, nodded as he finished off the last sentence.

  ‘All ay it, aye,’ he croaked, still reeling with weakness. ‘But sir, what about your sword? It’s a work ay art sir, unique in all the world, an’ I’m sure one ay your relatives or friends would be most grateful tae have it.’

  Captain Liversage chuckled sadly, and flecks of blood settled on his lips in a glittery spray of crimson.

  ‘I lost it on the battlefield, my boy. Some … Cossack has most likely … taken it as a trophy.’

  ‘No sir. I saved it. It’s in my trooper’s scabbard, sir.’

  Captain Liversage beamed a beatific smile at William.

  ‘Good boy … then I must add … something … to my will.’

  ‘Dictate it, sir, an’ I’ll make sure it’s recorded.’

  ‘My sword and scabbard … I leave to my batman, Private William Gisborne … of the 17th Lancers.’

  William stopped writing, the surprise of what Liversage had just said temporarily overpowering the pain and weariness that dogged him, and he set down the quill on the table.

  ‘Sir, no … no, I cannae take your sword, I cannae dae that. I dunnae deserve such—’

  ‘Hush, my boy … if you hadn’t retrieved it … some Russian soldiers would be … passing it around and … gambling over it with dice … as if it were … but a common trinket … You saved my sword, William … but you also saved … me.’

  Tears stung at the corners of William’s eyes, and a tightness clamped his throat between bulldog jaws.

  ‘I didnae really save you sir, you’re … you’re—’

  ‘Dying. Yes, my boy … My soul is … about to leave … this incarnation … and begin another … But you came back … for me … saved me from violent death … at the hands … of the enemy.’

  ‘It was, it wasnae—’<
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  ‘Let me speak … boy.’

  William nodded and held his tongue. Tears streamed unabashedly from his eyes, running down his cheeks and dripping with great wet splashes onto the table.

  ‘Write that down. Exactly … as I said it … Do not argue.’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  William wrote his own name down on the will, just as the captain had dictated.

  ‘Now … take a fresh … sheet of paper … I have … one more thing … to dictate.’

  William did as he was told and readied a fresh sheet of paper.

  ‘Ready, sir.’

  ‘I, Captain Mortimer Harold Liversage … of the 17th Lancers … hereby do, on … this day … the 25th of October of the year … 1854 … recommend that … due to … valour and feats of bravery … upon the field of battle … at Balaclava Valley in the Crimea … Private William Gisborne of the … 17th Lancers … be hereby promoted … to the rank … of lieutenant.’

  William sat bolt upright the instant he heard this.

  ‘Sir! I—’

  ‘Did I or did I not instruct you … to record my words exactly … as I utter them, Private? Are you … my amanuensis … or my adviser? Which one … boy?’

  ‘I’m sorry for interrupting, sir. No more questions from me.’

  ‘Good. Now, one more sentence … Are you ready?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘I recommend that … this promotion take place under … immediate effect.’

  William could scarcely believe what he was hearing, and was almost at a loss for words. He nonetheless managed to ask Captain Liversage one more question.

  ‘That’s all sir?’

  ‘That’s all … Bring me … those papers … so I can … sign them.’

  William heaved himself up from the chair, almost fainting in the process, and having to stifle a gasp of pain as his wounded legs shot bursts of agony through his body, and he hobbled over to the cot in which Captain Liversage was lying. He was breathing very shallowly now, and accompanying every inhalation of air there was a rasping rattle from deep within his chest. With weak, trembling fingers he beckoned to William to kneel down next to the cot. William handed him the papers and the quill, and Liversage signed his name on each with a shaky hand.

  ‘It is … done.’

  ‘Thank you sir, thank you so much, you dunnae know what this means tae me,’ William murmured, his heart bursting with joy and sorrow at once, his eyes glistening with rims of tears in the auburn glow of the oil lamp.

  ‘On the contrary, my boy … I know … exactly … what it means. True love … is worth everything … It is worth … more than everything … And I do believe … that you … certainly have it … So I am merely … giving you … the chance … I never had.’

  William wiped the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, but more kept on forming and pooling with relentless persistence.

  ‘Sir,’ William began through barely stifled sobs of sadness, ‘you never told me about your one true love. You said you’d tell me some day. Perhaps now is the time, sir.’

  A sad smile appeared on Captain Liversage’s pale, blood-flecked lips.

  ‘Yes, perhaps, my boy,’ Liversage rasped, chuckling weakly before he continued. ‘He … was the son … of one of my father’s … best friends, Lord Callaghan…’

  ‘He? Son of? I’m no’ sure tha’ I understand, sir.’

  ‘I have a confession … I am … a homosexual, William.’

  William blushed and began to stammer, not knowing how to react to this admission.

  ‘Oh, I … er, I’m—’

  ‘Hush my boy … Do you now … think less … of me?’

  William was resolute and sincere in his answer, which he delivered with swift clarity.

  ‘No sir. Absolutely no’, no’ at all. Truth be told Captain, you’re … you’re my hero, sir. You’re like the father I ne’er had. And nowt will e’er change tha’, sir.’

  The Captain reached over to William and clasped his hands in his. The Captain’s grip was weak, his strength almost non-existent; not much life was left in him.

  ‘Good … good. You are … a wonderful lad, William … Yes … Nigel Callaghan was … my one true love … As I said … was a childhood friend … We grew up together … He was my first … and my last love … When I joined … Her Majesty’s Army … and was stationed in India … He travelled there … to be with me … However … our love … was discovered … There was a great scandal … My father disowned me and … stripped me of my title … and inheritance … My lover … his father sent him … off to Southern Africa, to … the Cape Colony … in exile … never to return … or see me again … on pain of death.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir,’ William murmured. ‘I can, I can write some words tae deliver tae him, sir, if you so wish. Just speak your heart, sir, I’ll take it down and make sure tha’ no eyes but his see what’s written.’

  A single tear trickled from the captain’s eye down his cheek, and his face tightened; a deep, crushing pain had just been resurrected in him, a pain that dwarfed even the agony of his protracted physical death.

  ‘Thank you for … the offer, William … But he is … dead … He passed from … this incarnation … more than ten years ago.’

  ‘Oh, I—’

  ‘Hush my dear boy … I just hope … that your story … will turn out … better than mine … did … That is why … I have given … you … this officer’s commission … For love, William, for the greatest … and most magnificent thing … that exists.’

  ‘Sir, you’ve honoured me well beyond what I deserve, sir, I—’

  ‘Shh William. There is … one … condition.’

  ‘Anything sir, anything.’

  ‘Have a physician … remove my heart … after my soul … has left this … body … Take it … to South Africa … Find his grave … Nigel Edward Callaghan … He was posted … by Her Majesty’s colonial government … to a town … in a new colony called … Natal … Zulu country … a town called … Pietermaritzburg … He died there … is buried there … Take my heart … and bury it … with his remains … It matters not … when you do this … but please … before the end … of your days … please do it … for me, my boy … for true love … for that, William … I know you … understand … the importance … of it.’

  ‘I will dae this, sir. I swear it.’

  William could hardly squeeze the words from his lips, so choked was he with grief. He nonetheless spoke them as solemnly as he could. Captain Liversage nodded, almost imperceptibly, and a flickering ghost of a barely perceptible smile came across his haggard face.

  ‘Thank you … Thank you my dear, dear boy … Now I must … prepare … my soul … for its journey … Give my will … to the sergeant outside … but take the paper … recommending … your promotion … directly to … Lord Cardigan himself.’

  ‘I’ll dae tha’, sir.’

  ‘Now leave me … Make sure nobody enters this tent … until you hear … silence from within … Then, my soul … will have left.’

  Tears streamed down William’s cheeks, and he made no attempt to hide the outpouring of his grief.

  ‘Sir … farewell. Farewell Captain Liversage, farewell,’ he stammered through choking, body-racking sobs.

  He stood up and pain shot through his legs, but he managed to steady himself and remain upright. Before he left, he turned around to face the captain one last time, and spoke as clearly and proudly as he could through his agony and sorrow.

  ‘You’re the finest, most honourable gentleman I’ve e’er come across in my short life, Captain Liversage. True nobility you are, more so than any toff-nosed aristocrat, sir. Go well intae the great beyond, sir, go well. I will miss you … most severely.’

  ‘Farewell, William, and good luck … Good luck to you … my boy.’

  William turned around, swallowing bitter sobs of sorrow, and Captain Liversage began chanting in Sanskrit, beginning the ancient ritual that would mark th
e passing of his soul from this realm.

  Outside the tent the chubby sergeant was waiting, his countenance stony and severe.

  ‘What’s going on in there, trooper? What’s that strange noise and babbling? Has the captain lost his mind?!’

  ‘This is his l-, last will and t-, testament, sir,’ William rasped, handing one of the papers to the sergeant, sobbing and gasping as the tears continued to stream down his cheeks. ‘And he has requested tha’ n-, nobody disturb him until h-, his chanting is done, sir.’

  ‘Chanting?! Like some sort of uncivilised savage? What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Tha’s an order, sir, from the Captain himself,’ William said coldly, stiffening with defiant resolution. ‘Take his will, sir, an’ deal wi’ it, an’ leave him be until this tent falls silent. Sir.’

  The sergeant did not look at all happy with this, but he nonetheless complied, albeit with a scowl upon his face. As it had before, however, his temper subsided as quickly as it had flared up, and he adopted a sympathetic and congenial tone.

  ‘Well, come then lad, let’s get you back. You’re looking mighty pale and sickly, you are, and I believe there’s still a musket ball in your leg that needs extracting?’

  ‘Aye sir, tha’ wee gift from our Russian friends across the valley is still there,’ William croaked hoarsely, all too aware of the throbbing, intensifying pain in his leg.

  ‘And sir,’ he added, ‘I really dae need tae find out about my friends an’ my horse…’

  ‘It will have to wait, I’m afraid. Now I must get you back to the doctors, as I have many things that I need to do.’

  ‘Wait sir, there is one more thing.’

  ‘And what’s that, lad?’

  ‘The captain has requested tha’ his heart be removed from his body after he has passed. Please have that brought tae me when it’s done.’

  The sergeant raised a suspicious eyebrow.

  ‘What? That is a most unusual request. He said that? Are you sure?’

  ‘His orders were crystal clear on this matter, sir.’