‘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
