Blood and Ice

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

August 8, 1854

SINCLAIR SAT HIGH ASTRIDE HIS HORSE, Ajax, in full uniform and regalia, his peaked black helmet, modeled on that of the Polish lancers, at a slight tilt to provide some protection from the glare of the sun. A dozen other lancers were in a neat line to either side of him, and all the way across the drill field-a distance of no less than several hundred yards-an equally perfect line of cavalrymen were arrayed, also in everything from glittering gold epaulettes to tasseled sword knots. Sinclair knew, as did they all, that they were often mocked as dandies because of the richness of their apparel- mandated by their commanding officer-but he was also confident that if they were ever fortunate enough to see battle, they would prove that they were much more than that.

The horses pawed the patchy ground, apprehensive about what was coming; all morning, the 17th had been doing lance exercises and circling-the-haunches drills, requiring close formation and precision riding. But now the lances had been discarded, and when the cornet sounded, the riders were to engage in mock, hand-to-hand combat, using blunted wooden swords. Sinclair wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then dried his hand on the chestnut mane of his horse. Ajax had been with him since he was a colt, first at the family's country estate in Hawton, then in the regimental stables in London. As a result, there was a rapport between the horse and rider that the other soldiers could only envy. While the others were struggling to teach their mounts the most basic commands and maneuvers, Sinclair had perfect control of his own and could-sometimes with a gentle twitch on the reins, sometimes with just a word-make the horse do his bidding.

The trumpeter stepped up on one of the fence rails, raised the gleaming instrument to his lips, and played, three times in rapid succession, the rousing line that called the cavalry to charge. The horses whinnied and neighed, and Winslow's mare, directly to Sinclair's right, raised his head and forelegs, nearly throwing Winslow off altogether.

Sinclair, like the others, drew his wooden sword in one swift, almost silent motion and raising his right arm straight, shouted, “On!” to Ajax, while nipping at the horse's flanks with the jangling spurs. The horse burst forward like a racer on the Ascot track and the ground thundered as the entire line of cavalry rushed to meet the line coming at them. Somewhere in the opposing force, Le Maitre and Rutherford were riding, but the dun-colored horse coming most directly at Sinclair was ridden by Sergeant Hatch, a superb horseman in his own right and a veteran of the India campaigns. Hatch held the reins down low, a sign of confidence in his ability to control his mount, and his saber was held steadily aloft. He would pass, Sinclair judged, to his left, which meant they would be exchanging blows while pivoting in their saddles.

Sinclair held his legs tight to the sides of the horse as the turf exploded under the horses’ hooves, and now he could even make out Hatch's face-the man was grinning, showing off his white teeth and thick moustache, in a face made permanently tan by years in the Punjab sun. The commanding officers, most of whom had never seen combat, often disdained the “India men”-men who had not been able to purchase higher commissions and who had actually served in the Gwalior Campaign, or fought alongside the Bengal Light Cavalry in battles at Punniar or Ferozeshah-but to Sinclair it was an admirable, and enviable, thing. To have seen combat! To have engaged, and killed, an enemy soldier! What could be grander than that?

Hatch was bearing down on him now-with all the joy of a veteran soldier about to teach a neophyte, in gold braid and cherry-colored trousers, a lesson or two about the manly art of war. He screamed, “Huzzah!” as their horses nearly collided, and his wooden sword whirled in the air. Sinclair's went up to meet it, but the force of the blow made his sword and his arm, too, shudder all the way to the shoulder. The clatter of the wood caused the horses to whinny and buck in fear, but Sinclair was able to keep control of Ajax using the pressure of his own legs and one firm hand on the reins. Hatch's horse bared its teeth, as if it, too, had lessons to teach, and Ajax pulled his head away. Hatch leaned back in his saddle and aimed another blow, this time his blade sliding down the length of Sinclair's sword with a deadly scratching noise, stopping just short of the handle guard.

The horses bumped sides, like rolling battleships, and parted. But Hatch wheeled around behind, and as Sinclair twisted in his seat, the saber flew again; Sinclair ducked and felt the top of his helmet knocked askew. The strap suddenly jerked off his chin, and the hat tumbled down into the melee of hooves. Hatch's horse trotted in front of Ajax, and Hatch himself taunted Sinclair by tapping the tip of his sword on the baldric from which his opponent's empty scabbard hung.

“Dance, my Russian bear,” Hatch said, pretending to treat him like their foreign foe. “Dance!”

But Sinclair was in no mood for jokes, or ridicule. While all around him, other soldiers wheeled and clashed and battled, he touched his spurs to Ajax's left flank, and the horse moved forward; without his helmet on, Sinclair could actually see better, and as Hatch prepared for Sinclair to come to his right, Sinclair tugged on the reins and Ajax immediately altered his course. Sinclair swung his sword, and Hatch had just enough time to fend off the blow. 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 forlornly barking behind one flimsy door and a man bellowing about something at the end of the front hall. There was a musty smell on the stairs, which grew worse as he ascended, and as there was only one small window on each landing, it also grew darker. His boots made the floorboards creak, and as he approached Eleanor and Moira's door, he saw some feeble sunlight spill into the narrow hall. Moira was holding the door open a few inches, waiting to see who it was, but once she had ascertained that it was Sinclair, she seemed to crane her neck to look behind him.

“Good afternoon,” she said, the disappointment evident in her voice. “You've come all on your own, then?”

She must have been hoping he'd bring Captain Rutherford along; Sinclair knew that they had seen each other on several occasions, though he also knew that Moira set greater store by those meetings than did Rutherford.

“Eleanor's in the parlor.”

From previous occasions, Sinclair knew that the parlor simply referred to the tiny portion of the room that faced the street, and which was separated from the remainder of the room by a modesty curtain concealing the bed that Eleanor and Moira had to share. Eleanor was standing by the window-had she been looking down, waiting to see him arrive?-in the new pale yellow frock that he had, after some cajoling, persuaded her to accept. Each time they'd met, she'd worn the same simple forest-green dress, and though it was becoming on her, he longed to see her in something more gay and stylish. Though he knew nothing of ladies’ fashion, he did know that the bodice of the new dress was more generously cut, allowing for a glimpse of neck and shoulder, and the sleeves were not so puffed out as to obscure the line of her slender arms. He had been walking with Eleanor down Marylebone Street one afternoon, and he had seen her eye linger on the dress in the store window. He sent a messenger the next day to purchase it and deliver it to her at the hospital.

She turned toward him, blushing but pleased to let him see her in her new finery, and even in the sooty light of the London afternoon, she looked radiant. “I don't know how you knew,” she said, gesturing at the dress. A border of white lace lay like new-fallen snow across her bosom.

“And we only had to take it in by an inch or two,” Moira said, bustling about behind the curtain. “She's a regular dressmaker's form, this ‘un.” She reappeared, gathering a shawl around her ample shoulders and carrying a mesh sack. “I'm off to the market,” she said, “and shan't be back for at least the half hour.” She all but winked at them before closing the door behind her.

Sinclair and Eleanor stood alone, still somewhat awkwardly. Sinclair wanted to take her in his arms, and beautiful as the dress was, divest her of it as quickly as possible… but he would not do that. Despite the inequality of their positions in society, he treated her as he would any of the wellborn young ladies that he met at the country-house balls or formal dinners in the city. For his more base appetites, there was always the Salon d'Aphrodite.

But instead of coming to him, Eleanor remained where she was, studying his face. “I fear I haven't thanked you for the dress yet,” she finally said. “It's a very beautiful present.”

“On you, it is,” Sinclair said.

“Would you like to sit down,” she said, indicating the two hard-backed wooden chairs that filled the entire space allotted for the parlor, “or shall we go out?”

“I'm afraid I haven't much time for either,” he said, fidgeting in place. “Truth be told, I'm in breach of orders just being here.”

At that confession, Eleanor's curiosity immediately turned to concern. She had already noted that he was full to bursting, with what she did not know, and she also observed that he was dressed in uniform, with dirt caked on his boots and his complexion ruddy with exertion.

Had he broken a military regulation of some kind? She had guessed, over the past few weeks, that the young lieutenant was no stickler for protocol (hadn't he shown her, a woman, the inner sanctums of the Longchamps Club?), but she did not imagine him committing some serious wrong. Her fears were allayed only by the broad smile that flitted around his lips.

“Why? What orders are you defying?”

Sinclair clearly couldn't hold it in any longer, and he suddenly told her the news-the joyous news-that his regiment had been called into action.

And Eleanor found herself smiling, too, and feeling his excitement, as if it were contagious. For some time, the streets of the city had been filled with demonstrations, some protesting the march to war, but others loudly beating the drum for it. The papers had been filled with terrible stories of the atrocities visited upon the helpless Turks, and the dangers of the Russian fleet sweeping into the Mediterranean and posing a threat to the long-standing British supremacy on the seas. Conscription gangs had been tromping through the backstreets and alleyways, rounding up any reasonably able-bodied men-and some who were not-for Her Majesty's infantry. Even the boy who tended the coal bin and stoked the furnace at the hospital had been enlisted.

“When will you be going?” Eleanor asked, and when he told her, the full impact of the news suddenly struck her. If he was leaving the day after next, and he was already in contravention of the orders to remain at the barracks and camp, then this would be their last encounter, their last few minutes together before he sailed for the Crimea. The thought occurred to her, despite everything that she felt had passed between them in the previous weeks, despite any bond that might have been formed, that she truly might never see him again. And it wasn't only the dreaded prospect of war, and the inevitable chance of death, that terrified her; it was also the knowledge that had haunted her from the night she'd attended to his wounded arm. The knowledge that they did indeed inhabit utterly different worlds, and that if it weren't for that unlikely encounter, their paths would never have crossed. Sinclair, after his time overseas, might not return to London at all-he might go back to his family's estate in Nottinghamshire. (Although he was still quite circumspect about his background, she had gathered enough about it, from comments dropped by Le Maitre or Captain Rutherford, to know that it was rather impressive.) And even if he did return to London, would he choose to pick up again with a penniless nurse rather than the grand ladies who moved in his own social circles? Would this little adventure of his-and that was how she sometimes thought of it, in the darkest part of the night, when Moira's constant turning in the bed kept her awake-would it still hold sufficient appeal for him to overrule all questions of practicality and decorum?

As if reading her mind, Sinclair said, “I'll write to you as soon as I can.”

And Eleanor suddenly had a vision of herself, sitting in the chair by the sooty window, holding a letter, creased and worn by its long journey from the east.

“And I will write to you,” she replied. “Every day.”

Sinclair took a half step forward, as did she, and suddenly they were in each other's arms, her cheek laid flat against the rough gold braid that adorned the front of his uniform. He smelled of dirt and sweat and his beloved horse, Ajax; he'd escorted her once to the regimental stables and let her feed the horse a handful of sugar. She clung to Sinclair for several minutes, neither of them saying a word. They didn't need to. And when they kissed, it held a bittersweet and valedictory note.

“I must go,” he said, gently disengaging.

She opened the door for him and watched as he hurried down the steps without looking back, the thunder of his boots echoing up the stairwell. If only opportunity had allowed, she thought, if only he'd had just a little more time, she would have liked him to see her outside, in the afternoon light, wearing the new yellow dress.