Path of the Tiger

William perceived a lone British trooper galloping across the murk, and perceived immediately that it was Michael. He was only semi-conscious and was hanging with tired and desperate arms onto his horse’s neck, only barely managing to cling on as it ran wild-eyed from the battle in panic. Michael’s face was ashen white, and two broken lances protruded cruelly from his back, giving horse and man the look of an uprooted tree borne helplessly along by a flooding river. With a lurching feeling of dread in the pit of his belly, William noticed that Michael was alone, and that there was no sign of Paul.

In an instant Michael disappeared back into the choking fog and swirling madness whence he had emerged, and William’s attention was yanked from the distance to the immediate present as a howling Russian trooper attacked him. Up ahead, a pathway to escape and life had been smashed through the enemy ranks, and Captain Liversage reared up his horse on its hind legs and whirled his sword above his head, calling out in a loud and clear shout above the noise of the fight, ‘17^th Lancers, retreat from the field! Retreat!’

After a brief horseback duel William managed to unseat his adversary from his saddle with a well-timed thrust of his sabre, and he turned River King around to follow the path of retreat opened up by the last of the lancers. It was as he spurred his mount on that a crackle of shots rang out from a group of Russians to the side, and with a sickening feeling that hit him like an unexpected ocean wave he saw Captain Liversage and his horse topple over, after they were struck full on by the horizontal hail of lead.

William galloped over to the Captain, with his heart pounding in his mouth and the bitter taste of vomit tickling the back of his throat. He reached him right as a pack of Russian cavalrymen started charging over to finish him off, their swords and lances bristling from their galloping mass with eager brightness.

The Captain’s horse lay dead in the mud, killed instantly by the rain of musket balls, but Liversage himself still drew breath, although his body was likewise riddled with bullets.

‘William, my boy,’ he gasped, breathing shallowly. ‘I’m done for. Leave me here and fly, fly while you still can.’

‘I’ll no’ leave you here, sir,’ William rasped, his voice hoarse with determination. ‘No sir, I cannae obey tha’ command.’

William sheathed his sabre and then sprang off River King, tripping and stumbling as he landed awkwardly in the mud. He righted himself quickly, with hot blood pumping its panicked tribal rhythm in his temples and ears as the Russians drew nearer.

‘Come on sir, come on!’ he screamed, trying to pull the captain out from under his dead horse.

‘You must leave, my boy,’ Captain Liversage croaked, his voice thin and reedy. Blood was beginning to froth in bubbles at the side of his lips, and his face was bone-pale. ‘Do not sacrifice yourself on account of an old, dying man. Fly now before it’s too late! That is an order, boy, an order!’

‘No sir, no! I’ll no’ leave you here tae be butchered! I willnae!’

William howled wordlessly as he pulled with all his might, contracting every muscle in his body in his effort to extract Liversage from under the horse. His effort was successful, and he fell back with a sloshy splat into the viscous mud as the captain’s body was suddenly freed from being trapped beneath over four hundred kilograms of dead flesh. There was no time to falter now though; the Russian cavalrymen were almost upon them. With a boost of fresh strength, William hoisted Liversage up on his shoulders and then slung him over River King’s withers, face-down.

As he was about to mount River King, William saw Captain Liversage’s exquisite custom-wrought sabre lying in the muck.

‘I cannae leave tha’ fir some Russian tae claim,’ he muttered to himself.

He drew his own standard-issue sabre and flung it aside so that he could sheath the captain’s sabre in his empty scabbard.

‘Time tae go!’ he shouted, springing up into River King’s saddle.

He spurred his froth-soaked horse into one last gallop just as the Russians reached him, and he slalomed through them as they tried to stab and cut at him. William was too fleet and nimble a horseman for this particular batch of raw recruits, and River King, despite his exhaustion, had one final reserve of energy into which he could tap. Of this strength the bold stallion drew deeply, thundering his way through the obstacles of horses and men at a blistering pace.

The pall of smoke from the battle that hung over the Balaclava valley floor, across which the Light Brigade had so recklessly charged, now provided at least a little cover for the last stragglers to emerge from the hell of bullets, sabres and butchery that had been the battle. The Russians to the left and right, however, continued to pour a hail of fire into the retreating British cavalrymen, many of whom were limping along on foot, their horses having long since been shot out from under them.

As soon as River King had outstripped his Russian pursuers and disappeared from their view into the suspended forest of gunpowder-smoke trees his gallop slowed to a run, which further slowed to a trot, and finally a limping, hobbled walk as the last of his energy finally dissipated into a stupor of sheer exhaustion. William dropped his hands from the reins and slumped in his saddle, focusing all of his effort now on merely trying to remain conscious. Across River King’s withers Captain Liversage lay, drifting in and out of consciousness and breathing in wheezy, shallow gasps.

Around these three figures edging their way back out of a hell that was like some Hieronymus Bosch canvas come to life, musket balls zipped their murderous trajectories through the smoke, shells screamed through the frigid air like frantic birds of prey, and from