‘Well, aye … aye, Mikey, Captain Liversage decided tae give me an officer’s commission. Is it no’ wonderful? Now Aurora and I can—’
‘Paul is dead because ay you! And so is Andrew!’ Michael roared abruptly, the vehemence of his fury shaking the very walls of the tent. ‘Dunnae you dare call me “brother”, dunnae you bloody fuckin’ well dare!Ever again! You self-serving, loathsome fuckin’ worm!’
A terrible stew of warring emotions churned a sickening, fever-like malady of almost paralysing nausea through every cubic inch of William’s body.
‘Mikey, wha’?! Wha’ are you on about?! Paul’s no’, Andrew’s no’—’
‘Yes they are!’ Michael howled vociferously. ‘They’re both dead! Dead an’ gone, forever! Dumped in a mass grave six days past, an’ now feedin’ the fuckin’ worms under the ground! But they didnae have tae be, oh no, they didnae have tae be! You had the chance tae save Paul on the field at Balaclava! I called out tae you, an’ you saw me! You saw him, you bloody well saw him being set upon by the Russians! An’ what did you dae?! You abandoned me, you abandoned him, an’ you charged off tae help your precious officer! Who’s bleedin’ well dead now anyway! All fir this! This fuckin’ scrap ay paper! Well look an’ listen, Private William Gisborne, because this is what I think ay your bleedin’ officer’s commission!’
With that Michael began ripping the letter into shreds as William watched on in immobilised horror, reeling both from the shock of Michael’s words and the sight of the letter – his very future, his only chance to marry Aurora – being torn to pieces. He knew that he needed to act, to do something, to say something, but his limbs, his muscles, his mouth, his mind even, all seemed frozen with an inertia that was utterly insurmountable.
When he finished tearing up the letter, Michael dropped the torn-up fragments of paper onto the grass and then ground them into the earth with the heel of his boot. After this, he locked his cold eyes into William’s.
‘You’re also dead tae me now. The auld William I knew died at Balaclava, like Paul an’ Andrew. You, whoever the fuck you are, you’re nowt but a fuckin’ stranger. I’ll ne’er forgive you for wha’ you did. Ne’er. I dunnae e’er want tae talk tae you again. Dunnae talk tae me, dunnae come near me, dunnae even look at me. E’er again. Because if you dae, by God in the heavens above, I’ll kill you. I’ll fuckin’ kill you wi’ my bare fuckin’ hands.’
Michael took one step closer to William, and then with a spiteful viciousness he spat into William’s face. He then turned around and limped out of the tent, and William was left alone, with warm spittle dribbling down his cheeks and chin. A crushing emptiness billowed its blackness through his body, his mind and his soul, like storm clouds seen through a god’s eternal eyes. William staggered back and collapsed onto his cot.
It was all over.
Everything.
He had lost the people who had meant everything to him, and now he was going to lose Aurora too. The recurring nightmares had not been dreams, but reality; he understood this now. Paul was gone, Andrew was gone, and now Michael hated him with a burning passion. And the one redeeming thing that could have come out of all this misery – the officer’s commission – it was gone too.
He’s right. They’re dead because of me. Because of my selfishness. I don’t deserve that commission anyhow. I don’t deserve anything … anything but death.
Like superheated steam building in a chamber with no outlet to vent its mad pressure, a force began to wreak its destructive havoc inside him with exponentially increasing fury. He jumped up from the cot – and then promptly doubled over and vomited. He retched and heaved until there was nothing more coming out of him, but then he retched some more anyway. He fell onto his side, his stomach muscles aching from the effort and his throat aflame from the bile, but despite this he somehow found the strength to try to rise. The pain of his wounds mattered not a jot now; the pain in his heart, the agony twisting his soul was all he could feel.
With violently trembling limbs he stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then staggered out of the tent. Outside he almost collided with a fresh-faced young lieutenant who was carrying Captain Liversage’s sword and scabbard.
‘Pardon me, sir,’ William stammered as he stumbled back from the near collision.
‘That’s quite all right, lad. Tell me, do you know where I can find a Private William Gisborne of the 17th Lancers? I was told he’d be in one of these medical tents.’
‘Tha’s me, sir.’
‘Oh, how fortunate!’ the man said cheerfully. ‘I was sent to deliver this to you. It’s an extraordinarily fine piece of equipment, by Jove! Here, sign this, and it’s all yours.’
William took the quill and inkpot the officer handed him, and with a shaky hand he signed his name on the paper. The officer smiled, took the paper back and handed William Captain Liversage’s sword and sheath.
‘Thank you sir,’ William murmured as he took the weapon.
‘Take good care of it, Private. You know how to clean and oil it, yes?’
‘I do, sir. I was Captain Liversage’s batman.’
‘Ah, excellent, excellent. Oh, and Lord Cardigan asked me to remind you to bring him some letter of Liversage’s post-haste. You know of what I speak, I trust?’
‘I, er, yes sir, I know about the letter he needs, sir.’
‘Good. With that I bid you farewell. Good day to
