CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

1799
His Grace William Cavendish, 5th Duke of Portland Stockach Forest, Hegau (modern day Germany)

THE BOYS JOLTED around him as if hit by lightning that grounded their feet to the earth and sent their bodies into spasms. Their uniforms blurred as if splattered over with red rain. Cries of shock, pain, despair bore down upon him and seemed to unite in one wail that made him clamp his hands upon his ears. What hell was this? No demons with pitchforks but boys with swords and rifles. For what cause? What purpose was the blood leaking into the earth, which swallowed it impassively, impervious to the source of nourishment and impartial to the weight that fell upon it?

William could bear this no longer. And he was supposed to be captain of this company of British boys. He turned round to see their wide eyes upon him. Pale faces. They were looking to him for guidance. Direction. Strategy. And amidst it all he had nothing to offer.

‘Run, run,’ he screamed into the wind, which whipped the word around then cast it adrift.

The boys stared back at him – had they heard?

‘Run!’ one boy called. So they did.

‘For heaven’s sake, run while you still can,’ William cried, and lurched towards them to shoo them away like wandering sheep.

But it was too late. They had already broken cover.

He fell forwards and sank to his knees, pressing his head into his thighs. ‘They’re not running away. Why aren’t they?’ he said, as they streamed past him and a new wave of sounds ruptured his ears.

He turned to see a line of black boots, the backs of the soldiers’ legs as they faced the enemy. Then, like a macabre house of cards, each body crumpled to the ground. The white faces were twisted at odd angles. The boys looked confused. Had they got it wrong? Had there been a mistake?

‘Make it stop, make it stop!’ William closed his eyes. He tried to burrow deep within himself to find the dark place. The place where he hid away from his father that was warm and safe. He could go there just by closing his eyes; he knew the path well. But today was different. It was too much to bear. Those poor boys, and all because he’d failed to warn them. Failed to communicate to them that –

A hot bolt tore through his upper arm so that he opened his eyes and gasped. His blood spilled from the wound, saturating his shirt. He clasped his hand to it, keeled over and closed his eyes again. The pain drove further inwards, higher and deeper, and at last he found it – the path to his own place that was dark and safe. Thank goodness the pain had shown him the way.

He knew no more until he woke in hospital. He could hear men talking at the end of his makeshift bed while he feigned sleep.

‘Completely went to pieces. Lost more than half the company, did you hear? Damned incompetent.’

‘I heard. Nothing new, though, they’re all like that. Think their money can buy them a badge to take home and show off besides. “Delicate health,” the physician said. Shouldn’t have been sent out here in the first place.’

‘Well, he’s been babbling like a baby since he arrived. I heard on the field he just clamped his hands over his ears and lay down like a dog to die. The rest of the company – well, those who weren’t slaughtered – taught those French beasts a lesson and forced that scoundrel Jourdan to retreat to the Black Forest. Word is he’s given command to Ernouf and taken off to request more troops in Paris.’

‘Don’t think they’ll be coming anytime soon. And this fellow here is supposed to be a captain, isn’t he? Needs a nurse beside him every blooming minute to bathe his head, hold his hand.’

‘He’ll be an embarrassment to his old man, make no mistake. Paid for his position and will be just as likely to pay for his release – and the badge, like you said. Then this weakling will tell the ladies back home of battle and change his part to the hero if I’m not mistaken.’

Paid for. They were right: his father had bought him the position of captain.

The voices moved on to the next bed. ‘Knocking at death’s door, this one. But you’d take ten of him over the last one. Twenty years older but fought for his country. Courage. Real proper funeral he’ll have too.’

William felt the warmth spread between his legs and puddle beneath him. He didn’t want to call the nurse. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself. And he didn’t want to wake up. But most of all, he didn’t want to bring any further dishonour on his family name. He knew what it would mean.

Weeks later, back at Welbeck, he was roused in his own four-poster bed by an instinct that spoke of danger. At first he thought it was another nightmare of soldiers crawling up the drive to find him. Searching for him with drawn faces and necks cocked at unnatural angles. The dead boys, the dead English boys whom he’d failed to protect. They knew that it was his fault, and they were angry. He, the son of a duke, had been given a position of authority in a war that would bring honour to the family name. He’d failed, and his father’s money had ensured his failure would stay a secret.

But he wasn’t in the presence of a ghost. The moonlight spilled into the room, permitted by a window curtain drawn aside by a human hand. The outline of the intruder pressed against the velvet bed curtain was further evidence that this was a living person who needed light to see.

A pointed shape, like the tip of a sword, prodded the bed curtain at his feet, then made its way along to the corner of the bed, rounded this corner, and came down its path towards him. It paused. He held his breath; could he move? He clamped his hands over his ears as the blood in his temples began to throb.

With the flash of a hand, the curtain was jerked aside. A blade thrust towards him, finding his neck unprotected by the sheets. The sharp, icy metal pressed against his throat.

‘Dishonour.’ The word was spat down upon him on a breath of whisky.

His father’s face loomed up behind the sword as the old man leaned down with one elbow across William’s chest and edged the blade like a saw further up his neck.

‘Father, stop. You’re hurting me.’

‘Dishonour,’ came the breath again, and this time William saw his father’s eyes sink deep into their sockets with a darkness not merely a product of the night.

William tried to get away but his hands were pinned either side of him by his father’s body across his chest. The blade bit deeper into William’s thin layer of skin; he felt the singing of blood as it rose to the surface.

‘You jeopardised the whole mission because of your rambling.

Wouldn’t shut up, they told me. Nerves. Babble. Gibberish.’

When William swallowed, he felt the hard metal lodged there. ‘I’m sorry, Father, I’m sorry I brought dishonour on our name. I —’

‘Our name? If I could cast you from it, I would. You’re not worthy to bear such a name as mine. You’re a runt. No better than a pup who should have his throat cut or be bagged and drowned. Should I do that, do you think?’

‘No, Father, please don’t. I promise it won’t happen again. I won’t ever —’

‘I’d end it now if I was sure of getting away with it. I’ve had to pay countless officers off to keep quiet about you and your fragile nerves. The humiliation. The disgrace.’

William’s eyes filled with tears that wouldn’t stop, despite how much he swallowed.

His father stood up, black eyes bearing down on him. ‘And still you cry. What a pathetic snivelling child you are.’

With a deep breath, William made to rise – then noticed the wet patch beneath him.

‘And you soil yourself like a baby. You disgust me. What sort of man are you?’ His father flicked the blade to point directly at William’s heart.

‘I … I don’t know, Father.’

‘Are you even a man?’

‘No, Father.’

‘Say it again. Speak up.’

‘No, Father. I am not a man.’

The blade tip was buried in William’s nightshirt. ‘If you ever do anything to bring dishonour on my name again, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget.’

‘No, Father. I won’t, I promise.’

And up until he’d seen the advertisement for the Phantasmagoria, William had been true to his word.