FIVE
Alma to Balaklava
‘Christ, Colour-Sar’nt, the Regiment’s taken a beating, ain’t it?’ Morgan looked at the headless body of his former company commander, Eddington, that was being carried by two soldiers from the Grenadier Company, one holding him below the knees, the other below the shoulders. As the lifeless, waxy white hands swung in time to the men’s pace, so the soldier at the rear tried to keep the sticky gore from the dead officer’s shattered neck from staining his uniform.
Morgan stared as the corpse passed. Could it only be last night that Eddington had sent the subalterns packing when they were discussing the glamour of being wounded in battle—although none of them had reflected on the merits of a bloody death? And was it only a few hours ago that the same man had led his
