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.