TD - 15th Hussars HQ

'I see. Probably one of the officers' then'. He still was not clear on this point and he wanted to know all the details. 'You don't know which one, do you?'

"Of the regiment, sir. Not an officer's.." He shook his head. He wouldn't dare to imagine he had ridden an officer's horse. "I do not know her origins, though I suspect she has been collected in Portugal. She does not look as any of our horses." Well a bit of knowledge he could pledge to know as a Hussar obviously.

'Ah, I see'. Well, he thought, she probably would not be kept with the 'herd' so to speak rather then stabled with the officer's mounts. He did not know how to reassure Willoughby: the boy would undoubtedly reject his offer. He would have to simply put it before him when the deed was done. If it was done. If he managed to pull it off without getting his neck in the noose.

George squeezed Timothy's shoulder in what was hopefully a reassuring gesture. 'Don't worry. I am sure you'll see her again'.

Timothy gave Hunter a smile that was one knowing. A kind word that he knew would be impossible unless of course he came to see the horses or happen to see her used and in action while other horses were killed. Still he nodded and smiled as if the word held any prophetic value.

"How is your Firebird, sir? In good health and full strength, I hope?"

'Yes, thank you. She is probably harassing the hell out of whoever is on stable duty. She does not like being cooped up'. The boy obviously did not believe his words about Bella. Christ, the boy had to have some distraction, or he'll probably be brooding about the court martials.

'Can you read?'

"Uh...Yes, sir. " He smiled at the thought of Firebird not being too kind with the poor men that had to take care of officer's horses.

'Good'. Hunter got up and strode to the door, rapping on it sharply. There was the sound of key turning and the Sergeant looked in.
'Yes, sir?'
'Be so kind as to have someone fetch my servant. He is lounging outside now'. Sergeant nodded and disappeared.

A few minutes later the door opened and Fernao stepped in. George addressed him in Portuguese.
'Do you remember the book I had in my saddle bag earlier today?'
'Yes, its still there'. The boy patted the saddlebag he took off Firebird before leaving her in the stables.

George took the saddlebag, and got out a hefty book. Then sending Fernao away, he sat back down on the bed by Timothy and handed him the book. The cover said 'One thousand and one nights'.

Willoughby looked to the book, before carefully taking it. "Sir?" His voice carried the unspoken question. He looked surprised and a good deal confused. Did he want that he reads him now?

He glanced briefly at the cover, to read its title, then looked back to Hunter.

'It is a great book. I loved it as a boy for all the adventure in it. I love it as a man for everything else. It is a copy my mother gave me when I was going away to Portugal'. He paused. 'You have to time to while away. It will help you pass it'.

Willoughby looked at the book and held it tenderly in his hand. He was stunned by the trust that Hunter was giving him with something that he surely held precious to his heart. He bowed his head in respect, then smiled politely at the man.

"I am undeserving of such kindness, sir. " He spoke. A way to pass time. It would keep his nerves contained though he wondered how his superiors would react to the ways that were to make himself feel more at ease. He hoped that they were satisfied with him solely locked as he were, and already afraid of his future. He could have written now, requested paper and pen. Sent a letter to his grandfather, yet he would not do it. He was a trooper and thus he would not play a coward when it counted.

'Nonsense. After all the bad luck you've had, you are certainly deserving of more kindness than just a book. Besides, it'll keep your mind occupied. No sense in brooding, is there'. George got up and walked to the window.

After looking out of it, he turned around. 'One of the stories there is called 'The Ebony Horse'. It is a horse that carried Prince of Persia on his adventures. She could fly towards the Sun, or a distance of one year in a single day. As a boy I dreamt of having a horse like that. A horse that could take you anywhere'.

"If our cavalry had such horses, there wouldn't be a war not won... nor a path not taken." He smiled at the thought. A mystical horse that crossed lands like that. Not even horsemen could have imagined one such.

"Thank you sir. ...I do not know how I may repay you,.." As trooper money was quite out of the question. He smiled and held the book carefully in his hands, so that no harm would come to it while it was in his keep. "I shall have it." He nodded to the book:" returned as quickly as you shall desire to read it.. or as soon, as my... trials are begun."

'Return it once you've finished it'. Lost for anything else to add, George rubbed the hilt of his guardless sabre absent-mindedly.

Willoughby nodded in response. He looked at the book, had a short glance at the first page. He looked up in time that the strange weapon was brought to his view. It wasn't like the ones he was used to. Not the design, the length nor the small details that stood out. Such one being that it had no guard but instead a large curved pommel. He leaned a bit, tilting his head to the side, as he strained to see the weapon in better detail.

George noticed the lad looking at his weapon with interest. He drew it out of the scabbard.

The weapon looked like a cross between a straight sword and a sabre. The blade was slighly curved and double-edged.

He handed the weapon to Timothy.
'This is called a shashka'.

"Shashka?" He asked and accepted the weapon carefully from Hunter. He studied its blade, feeling a finger along the edge. He had little doubt of it's sharpness as officers were certain to have their equipment always in the best order. Shyly he weighed the sabre, while holding it by the handle. As expected it wasn't as heavy as the straight sword, or some of the blades he had the privilege of carrying.

'Yes. An Eastern blade favoured by the Russian Cossacks, horsemen like you. You see, it's construction allows it to be effective for both slashing and thrusting. However, generally you strike with the part of the blade closest to the hilt and the pull on it, increasing the cutting action'.

"I see. How ...may I ask, sir.. have you acquired one such weapon?" Though Hunter could well have been a collector of swords and sabres, or have one personally made just for him. He was an officer and seemed certainly wealthy enough that he could afford it.

George smiled: this question was bound to be asked. 'I have served with the Cossacks for over two years in the steppes of Crimea. At the beginning a carried nought but an old sabre of my grandfather. When I proved myself by killing a bashibazouk, our commanding officer gave this to me.'

He looked up with interested, the sword still held and studied, though perhaps for the moment only held in his hands. "Sir,... can you ..tell me more of your "He paused searching for the correct word:" adventures in the war?"

George sat down on the bed again. 'Well, can't say I had many adventures. Not in this war, at least.' He paused, collecting his thoughts. 'When I was twelve my mother took me to live to her father's estate not far from Minsk, which is a city in Russian part of Poland. Two years later I ran away to join Cossacks in Crimea. Of course, they laughed at me at first. There I was a scrawny lad with a rusty sabre, who did not know anything about real fighting. Somehow I convinced them to let me stay.

One day we were on our way to join another troop and we were attacked by bashibazouks, who are the fearsome Irregular troops of the Turks. It is better to die than be taken prisoner by them. While we fought, I fell off my horse, and a bashibazouk dismounted to kill me off. He pressed his sword against my throat and laughed. I managed to stab him in the foot with a boot knife and then run him trough with my old sabre'.

After that I became a real soldier and our commander gave me this weapon as proof of that'.

"How did you come to serve under Sir Arthur?.. General Wellesley?" He asked, impressed by the story, of which he understood the feelings and emotions in some. Running away, did not look too ... foreign to him after all. Atleast the part of running away from his parents, for he had never and never wanted to desert the army.

George frowned. 'That I do not know. I was lounging about with my regiment in England and then I get the orders that I am to be his new aide-de-camp.' Suddenly he slapped his own forehead. 'Damn it, I've yet to do my punishment'.

"Your punishment sir?" That startled him. What had Hunter done, that would secure him a punishment? He atleast was certain that as an officer he was exempt from flogging, though he could indeed have lost rank. Since he still carried on him, the colours of captain, the later did not happen.

Of course, officers were often no better than the soldiers, they only got away with more. Not that he would dare say that out loud. Instead he smiled, held the sword, hilt first to Hunter, and waited for the man to answer. It was after a moment that he'd felt dread he might have stuck his nose into things that did not concern him and that Hunter bight see the cheek and consider it going too far.

George grinned. 'Yes, you see my servant picked up a kitten in Pombal, thinking it abandoned. This morning however, a man came for it: the kitten belonged to his niece. So, my punishment is to write 'I will not steal little girl's kittens' a hundred times by tomorrow morning'.