The winch must have pulled again, because the ice block came forward on one side, then the other, almost like a penguin waddling across snow. Again, it stopped, still clinging precariously to its frozen perch, before issuing a mighty agonized groan and toppling forward, away from the iceberg, and swinging free above the bottomless sea. Lawson quickly swam toward it, and even as the winch began to haul it up and toward the dive hole, he attached himself like a limpet and knotted the back portion of the net for added safety. Michael, stunned, was quickly left behind, as he watched the block of ice, the size and shape of a big refrigerator, drifting away, with Lawson holding on and hitching a ride. The glove on Michael’s left hand was leaking again, leaving his wrist feeling like an ice-cold iron bracelet had been bound around it. His air tank beeped a warning, and with his ice saw at the ready in case of a leopard seal attack, he followed the trail of bubbles up from the depths and toward the bluer waters above.
From below, the ice block looked like a crystal ornament, something that might twinkle on a Christmas tree, as it sailed back up out of the void and into the living world…carrying its strange and petrified cargo.
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 cavalry-men 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?