‘Good morning sir!’
The officer, a youngish, well-built man with a face framed by curly blonde muttonchops, paused his work and turned around.
‘Good morning Private,’ he answered in a gruff, husky voice. ‘Is there something I can help you with, pray tell? Egads, you’re looking rather pallid! Should you not be in one of the medical tents?’
‘The doctor says I’m fine, sir,’ William lied. ‘And yes sir, there is something you could assist me with, sir.’
‘And what might that be?’
‘Could you please direct me tae Lord Cardigan’s tent, sir?’
The officer raised an eyebrow and gave William a good looking over for a few seconds, but he nonetheless decided to help him.
‘Very well. You see the smith’s tent over there at the end of this row? Yes, there, you can see him repairing a lance point. Go just past his tent, then turn left and head up the hill. You’ll find Cardigan and his retinue up at the very top there. He’ll likely be having his caviar and tea about now.’
‘Thank you most kindly, sir. That’s a beautiful mount you’ve go’ there, by the way.’
The officer smiled proudly.
‘Yes, she is rather splendid, is she not? She is one of the few who survived the charge at Balaclava.’
A spear of horror and dread stabbed into William’s gut at the mention of the charge. He swallowed slowly and turned away, hoping that the officer had not noticed the look of abject fear that had stained his visage with such abruptness.
‘A lucky one then sir,’ he managed to utter through a suddenly chattering jaw. ‘I’ll, er, I’ll be on my way now. Good day tae you, sir.’
‘Good day, Private.’
William hobbled off as briskly as he could with his myriad injuries, trying to force the wash of nightmarish recollections back into the recesses of memory as he felt his heart rate climbing and his rate of breathing steadily quickening. He reached inside his jacket and clutched at the portrait of Aurora with trembling fingers, closing his eyes and trying to picture her, his protective goddess who would drive away the evil of these intrusive visions with the light of her love and goodness.
On aching, lead-heavy legs he made his way up the hill, grunting and gasping with every laboured step, until at last he reached the resplendent tent at the top. Here Lord Cardigan and some other officers were seated around a table, the surface of which was strewn with terrain maps, which in turn were scattered with carved wooden pieces, representing various army units.
William stood on the outskirts of the circle of officers for a while, unsure of how to approach without interrupting them and appearing rude. With each passing moment that they remained seemingly oblivious to his presence, his anxiety and nervousness grew exponentially in magnitude. Eventually he coughed as loudly as he could – and then felt a gush of heat flooding his cheeks as they all ceased their discussion and turned to look at him.
‘Yes Private?’ asked a portly old officer with a shiny bald pate and ruddy jowls featuring white mutton-chop sideburns. ‘Did Lord Raglan send you?’
‘Er, no sir,’ William replied sheepishly. ‘Nobody sent me, sir.’
Anger flared up in the officer’s thickly lidded eyes.
‘Then what in the blazes are you doing here, boy?! Have you gone mad?! You do not simply come here and make idle chit-chat with the commanders of the entire British Army, unless it’s being lashed to a cannon wheel and flogged to within an inch of your miserable life that you’re after!’
‘I, er, actually, Captain Liversage sent me, sir,’ William managed to stammer. ‘Before he passed on, sir.’
‘Well he’s been dead for days now man, days! Why did you not come as soon as you were sent?! By Jove, I really do have half a mind to have you flogged for this outrageous insolence!’
Lord Cardigan held up a finger to silence the angry officer.
‘Hold on there, Whittington, hold on, let the lad speak. Go on Private, tell us what you’re here for.’
A wash of relief temporarily cooled the heat of William’s of embarrassment and anxiety.
‘Lord Cardigan, sir, Captain Liversage, um, before he passed on, he recommended that I be promoted, sir. Tae lieutenant, sir.’
The old ruddy-faced officer sprayed out a mouthful of tea as he heard this, and he glared furiously at William with rage-bulging eyes.
‘What?!’ he spluttered, incredulous. ‘You, a fresh-faced private from the common ranks, be promoted to lieutenant?! Surely Captain Liversage had no part in such rash foolishness, as strange as many of his ideas were! Is this your idea of a joke, boy?! Who put you up to this?! Tell us at once and end this ridiculous jesting! So help me, I’ll thrash you myself for this insult, and when I find him, I’ll have the culprit behind this humbug flogged senseless as well!’
‘Wait, wait, Whittington,’ Cardigan interjected. ‘Perhaps the lad is telling the truth. You know how many officers we lost at Balaclava, and by Jove we all know that those spots need to be filled somehow, if we are to continue fighting this war with any semblance of success, that is. Perhaps Liversage thought that this young chap had some sort of potential. Who are you, lad? Tell us now. And Whittington, give him a chance to explain himself, I implore you.’
‘Very well,’ Whittington grumbled. ‘But make it quick, boy, make it quick. None of us have time to waste!’
William spoke in as quick and calm a tone as he could put on.
‘My name is Private William Gisborne, sir. I was Captain Liversage’s batman, sir. I charged with him at Balaclava, and rescued him from the field.’
‘Ah yes!’ Cardigan cried, nodding
