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, ride 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
