But rather than drawing back, Sinclair struck again, the blow glancing off the edge of Hatch's saber and nearly taking off the man's nose. The dun-colored horse neighed and kicked out. Hatch reared back in his saddle, virtually standing in his stirrups, to get out of reach of another swing, and when Sinclair had passed, he drove his horse headfirst into Ajax's flanks. Before the horse could turn, or Sinclair could right himself in the saddle, Hatch had looped his reins on his pommel and with his hand now free reached out and grabbed Sinclair by the fur collar of his pelisse, dragging him off his horse altogether. Sinclair slid down the horse's flanks, his equipment clanking, his shoulder harness slipping loose, and thumped down onto the broken soil, rolling free as nimbly as he could of the flying hooves all around him. There was dirt in his mouth, and the remnants of his helmet were crushed flat.
The bugler sounded an end to the conflict, and as the combatants separated, some laughing, others licking their imagined wounds, Sinclair looked around; three or four other men were also lying in the dirt, one with a bloody or broken nose, another with a gash in his leg from a caught spur. All looked less than pleased with themselves. As Sinclair struggled onto all fours-his cherry trousers sporting a great hole in one knee-he saw a pair of black boots striding up and saw a gnarled, brown hand extended.
“You can't always expect your enemy to fight fair,” Sergeant Hatch said, helping to lift Sinclair off the ground. He bent down, picked up the black brim of Sinclair's helmet, knocked the dust off it, and ceremoniously handed what was left of it to him. “But that was a fine bit of riding-you held your horse well.”
“Not well enough, apparently.”
Hatch laughed, and though he was probably no more than eight or nine years older than Sinclair, his face folded itself into a thousand tiny brown lines, reminding Sinclair of a parchment map, and making it very hard for Sinclair to hold a grudge.
“We India men,” he said, boldly appropriating what was generally considered a slur, “are so used to fighting scoundrels that we've learned to fight like ‘em.” He paused, and the smile left his face. “Which is why you must, too.”
Sinclair was mildly surprised-he was so unaccustomed to hearing anything but the most high-minded sentiments about warfare, espoused by officers drawn from the aristocracy and whose battle experience was generally nil, that to listen to such advice seemed almost treasonous in itself. War was regarded as a courtly game, played by an elaborate set of rules that all gentlemen adhered to, whatever the cost. But here was this battle- hardened veteran, telling him that it was a struggle with brutes who would just as soon manhandle you off your horse than engage in proper swordplay
As they led their mounts off the field, Sergeant Hatch offered a few more pointers on the most recent theory of equitation, presented by Captain Nolan of the 15th Hussars-”If your horse kicks at the spur, it's a sign your weight is too far forward; if he capers, it means the weight is too much on the haunches”-and they were waiting in file to pass through the gate when a rider, Corporal Cobb, the flanks of his horse streaming with sweat, charged up to the fence, waving a sheaf of papers at the lancers.
“They've come!” he shouted, his horse rearing back on his hind legs. “The orders from the War Office!”
The men stopped in their tracks.
The corporal gained control of his mount, then rising in his saddle to make himself better seen and heard, announced that “By order of Lord Raglan, Commander in Chief of the British Army of the East, the 17th Duke of Cambridge's Own Lancers shall depart on the tenth of August, aboard Her Majesty's Ships Neptune and Henry Wilson, for the port of Constantinople; there, under the supervisory command of Lieutenant-General, Lord Lucan, they shall aid in the taking of Sebastopol.”
There was more to the announcement, and Cobb went on reading, but Sinclair could hear nothing of it over the cheers and hollering of his fellow dragoons. Many of the men threw their helmets into the air, others brandished their wooden swords; several shot off a round on their pistols, frightening the horses. Sinclair, too, felt his blood racing in his veins. This was it, at last! He was going to war. All the drilling, and training, and mucking about in the barracks, was finally going to come to something! He was going to go to the Crimea and help rescue Turkey from the depredations of the Czar. He thought of a cartoon he'd seen in the paper that morning-it showed the British lion in a bobby's hat, tapping the rampaging Russian bear on the shoulder with a nightstick and saying, “Now, now, I shall have no more of that!” He heard himself shouting, too, and saw Frenchie astride the fence, leading a dozen men in a raucous chorus of “Rule, Britannia, Britannia, rule the waves!” He turned to Sergeant Hatch to clap him on the back, but stopped short when he saw his face.
Unlike all the others around him, Hatch was not exulting. He did not look afraid, or reluctant in any way, but he did not look to be champing at the bit, either. He had a half smile on his lips as he surveyed the pandemonium around him, and in his eyes there was a serious, even faraway expression. It was almost as if he could see their destination, and perhaps their fate, in his mind's eye, and Sinclair's own spirits suddenly grew more sober. Still, he said, “It's a great day, Sergeant Hatch, is it not?” and Hatch nodded, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
“You'll never forget this day,” he said, in a tone more solemn than it was jubilant.
“Bri-tons,” Frenchie and his chorus were singing out, “never, never, never will be slaves!”
Another hand seized Sinclair by the elbow, and when he turned it was Rutherford, his muttonchops fairly bristling with the news. His face was red with shouting, and he could only shake Sinclair with delight.
“By God,” he sputtered at last. “By God we'll show ‘em a thing or two!”
And Sinclair immediately fell in with his mood. He turned away from Sergeant Hatch and threw himself again into the happy madness. He deliberately led Ajax off, holding tight to his reins; he wanted to slag off any doubts or hesitation. This was a time for celebration, for camaraderie, and he wanted no part of warnings or admonitions. Hatch had reminded him of a poem, by that fellow Coleridge, the one where the wedding guest is stopped by an ancient mariner, who insists on telling him a dire tale. Sinclair wanted no dire tales that day-he wanted the promise of glory and the opportunity of valor. And finally, it appeared, he would most certainly have them!
But the tenth of August was only two days away, and there would be a great deal to do in the time remaining. No doubt all their uniforms and weapons and tack would have to be organized, polished, cleaned, and inspected; their mounts would have to be readied for the long voyage aboard the navy frigates-or would the army commandeer a fleet of the new steamers, to make the trip in much less time? — and affairs in London, of any nature, would have to be wound up, too.
Which meant he must consider how to break the news to Eleanor. Indeed, he was due at her boardinghouse that afternoon. He had promised to take her to Hyde Park, where the Crystal Palace had so recently stood. He had hoped to make a day of it, having a stroll under the stately elms that filled the park, but unless he was sorely mistaken, his entire brigade would be confined to the barracks until their departure. He would have to make his exit right away and hope to be back again before he was missed in all the commotion.
He took Ajax to the stables and once he was in his stall, made sure to give him a double ration of oats and hay. Running his hand down the white blaze on his muzzle, he said, “Shall we cover ourselves in glory?” Ajax lowered his chestnut head as if assenting. Sinclair patted him down with a cloth to wipe away the sweat from his strong, well-muscled neck, then left the stables by the rear gate, where he had less chance of being seen.
He'd have liked to change his shirt, or at least wash up a bit, but the risk of being forestalled was too great. He hurried to the Savoy Hotel, where he knew he'd find a hansom cab or two waiting; he hired the first one he spotted, and called out his destination while leaping into the seat. The coachman flicked his whip and the carriage took off through the busy, dirty streets at a brisk pace, while Sinclair caught the first deep breath he'd had since hearing the news and debated how he would relay it all to Eleanor. He'd hardly had time, for that matter, to digest it himself.
His father, the earl, would probably be pleased; it would place Sinclair out of reach of the gambling dens and music halls and other expensive amusements of London, and, if he didn't get his head blown off, return him to England with a reputation as a soldier instead of a wastrel. But ah, if only the earl knew where Sinclair was headed at present-to the humble quarters shared by a pair of impecunious nurses, on the top floor of a dilapidated boarding-house. It would make the old man shudder, that much Sinclair knew, and if he were to be completely honest with himself, he would have to admit that he derived a certain enjoyment from that fact. The earl had been forever parading one plain aristocratic lady after another past him, hoping that Sinclair would find one of them sufficiently enticing, but Sinclair was a man who had always known what he wanted, instantly, and what he wanted was Eleanor Ames. He'd known it the moment he saw her closing the hospital shutters.
When the cab arrived on Eleanor's street, Sinclair directed the driver to the boardinghouse, then tossed him some coins while stepping down. “If you wait, you'll have the fare back again!” he cried.
The front steps were cracked, and the vestibule door had no lock. As Sinclair entered, he could hear a dog
