William reached down inside his jacket and pulled up the locket with its portrait of Aurora. He flipped the locket open and stared into her eyes, trying to imagine that the daubs of paint were the real things.
‘How I wish I was in your arms right now, my love,’ he whispered, feeling the salt of tears burning at the corners of his eyes. ‘That’s how I want tae leave this world: in yer arms, auld an’ grey, an’ surrounded by our children an’ grandchildren an’ great-grandchildren, wi’ the sound ay birdsong and the bubblin’ ay a mountain brook outside, and the cracklin’ ay a hearthfire within. Wi’ a smile on me’ face as I gaze into those eyes ay yours, the beauty ay which age will surely ne’er dull. I dunnae want tae die here, like this, I dunnae want tae—’
‘What’s going on?’ he heard a voice say to his right.
Paul.
‘We’re no’ gonnae advance,’ Paul continued. ‘I ca’ see it. Lord Raglan is shaking his head.’
Murmurings started to flutter through the squadron, for Paul had not been the only one who had noticed Lord Raglan’s gesture of refusal.
‘Bollocks to that!’ Sergeant Fray roared, and the whole squadron could hear the scorn and disgust in his voice. ‘We’re ready and rarin’ to cut them Russians to pieces, yet we’re bleedin’ being made t’ stay ‘ere like a bunch o’ yellow-bellied cowards! Bah!’
A rumble of complaints and curses rippled through the ranks, flesh-bouncing echoes of Fray’s outburst. William, however, breathed a sigh of relief and eased his sweat-clammy fingers off of his lance haft.
‘I’ll live another day,’ he whispered to himself. ‘One day closer tae seeing you again, my angel Aurora.’
He slipped the pendant back inside his jacket and curved the corners of his mouth upward into a subtle, contented smile. Many thousands of men had died upon the battlefield this day, but he and his friends were still safe – safe for the time being, at least. Captain Morris came trotting back from his meeting with Raglan, and on his long face he wore a stormy scowl. Captain Liversage and the lieutenants of the 17th Lancers rode out to meet him, and William watched as Morris spoke a few gruff words to the others through gritted teeth; his frustration with being ordered to stay put was blatant. The officers then trotted back to their respective squadrons, and most of them sported similar expressions of anger and frustration on their visages. The exception, however, was Captain Liversage, who wore a look of cool and measured calm on his countenance. Liversage spoke a few words to Sergeant Fray and then galloped away. The sergeant sheathed his sabre, shaking his head and muttering under his breath as he did, and then turned around to face the troopers. His face was a contorted mask of crimson disgust and acute disappointment.
‘17th!’ he bellowed hoarsely, ‘Wheel your horses about left! We’re leaving!’
***
Dearest Aurora
Life is hard here, my love. I won’t get into the details of the drudgery of day-to-day life in the camps, the lack of sleep, the discomfort of the tents and the strange combination of boredom and fear when out on picquet duty, suffice to say that they are very trying on my spirit. Thoughts of you get me through these difficult times, though – thoughts of you will get me through anything, I sincerely believe.
I’ve just returned from battle, at a place in the Crimea called the Alma River. That all happened yesterday, and what a day it was! I’ve never seen anything as horrific in all my life. Luckily for me, the cavalry didn’t take part in the battle (I hope that this letter gets by without being checked by anyone, as I’ll surely be accused of cowardice for uttering such a sentiment). We only watched as the infantry fought it out across the valley. It was strange, it was, trying to make out what was going on. Of course the officers all had their spyglasses and what not, with which they could see clearly, but to us regular troopers it just looked like a great swathe of toy soldiers, all swarming about in chaos in churning masses of red and grey.
We hammered the Russians, we did. I know that many of their men, and ours, died that day. It’s a strange feeling, watching a man die like that, from a great distance, through a blanket of gunpowder smoke, with the booming of cannons and the crackling of muskets raging like a Highland thunderstorm all around. Ah, just writing that phrase makes me miss home, and makes me miss you even more than I already do, if that is even possible. My heart aches for you, my love. I see your face whenever I close my eyes. I see you standing in every shadow, and hear your laughter in the song of the birds in the trees, and feel your kisses in the wind brushing my cheeks. I dream of you every night, you know. I imagine that we’re back in the hills, by the waterfall, with the river king watching us from his secret chamber. Just you and I, my love, the only people for miles, under our blanket, beneath the million scattered diamonds that are the stars, those iridescent jewels shining so brightly against the cloak of night, stretched across that velvet sky above us. That’s where my heart will always be, Aurora, that’s where it’ll be, there with you, wherever else this body of mine goes. And you’re always here with me: in my heart, in my thoughts, in every breath that passes between these lips you are here, with my immortal soul.
I wear your pendant around my neck all
