In Front Always

Peter at war. A character study.

"But to the key questions, in front always, sometimes, or never? ... to which Alexander of Macedon would have answered 'always'..." - J. Keegan, The Mask of Command.

--

Peter was a fair enough student and had a fair enough memory to know most of the habits and particulars of the "great leaders" of his world. He knew, for instance, that Wellington took toast and tea every morning for breakfast, that he kept himself enough collected to spend several hours before any engagement, or any normal day on campaign, diligently composing his despatches by early morning light. He knew that when he rode out to the field at Assaye or at Salamanca he was the very picture of gentlemanly grace, unflappable, even jovial, chatting with his aides-de-camp, bustling to-and-fro across the lines. Tireless. Competent. Clear-headed. An undeniable genius.

Peter sometimes took to thinking of all the long hours he spent, a frivolous and usually rather bored young schoolboy, absolutely fascinated by the (in his mind) thoroughly British concept of greatness, imagining such things manifesting themselves on the rugby field or some similiarly ridiculous place. But he didn't really like to think of it that much, because he always got that awful, nauseating, "was I ever really that person?" feeling, which turned his stomach and set an ache between his eyes. And so he would bring his mind to other things. There wasn't anything else to be done.

But sometimes he did let himself think of Wellington. And Adolphus. And Frederick the II. And it brought him a certain kind of guilt that he could not quickly cast aside.

--

"Pete?" Edmund's voice is muffled through the thick canvas of the tent.

He pretends to just have awoken. He runs his fingers through his hair, presses the heels of his hands to his cheeks, hoping that their pallor might recede and he might appear as he is expected to appear: well-rested, at ease.

He had learned little tricks, you see, to help himself cope.

At final tactical review he holds his hands behind his back, so that it will be less clear to any onlooker that they have a bit of tendency to start shaking of their own accord and at inconvenient intervals.

He paces across the bright grass at his feet and the feet of his captains, because he knows that they will not perceive it as simply an expenditure of nervous energy, but something more purposeful. More dignified.

He sometimes turns away from Ed, Oreius, and the others (his sisters too, if they're there) and gazes out across the expanse of their encampment, as though deep in thought. And he knows that it's a tad too dramatic. He knows that Wellington, personally, always shunned such similar theatrics and emotional displays. But he knows also that those he fights alongside can't really begrudge him the chance to erase just a little of the fear that lingers overlong in his sleepless eyes. He knows that they don't want to see it anymore than he does.

He hums along to the marching tunes that the fauns play on their flutes as he and the other officers form the line, and though he's glad to see others taking heart from his apparent high spirits, he knows he only joins them in song because he can think of no other way to counter those little shivers that run up his spine and set his teeth to chattering.

But once the line is fully-fashioned, once the drums go silent and the merry voices of his soldiers lapse into a solemn stillness that, he believes, is as essential to the construction of proper courage as anything else, he has no other distractions. He knows no clever way of softening the sensation of unearthly electricity that runs up and down his limbs, filling them with such weakness that he wonders if he will even be capable of drawing his sword. He has no idea how to instill any kind of strength into his terribly childish voice as he stands straight in the saddle, prepared to call the charge. He has never learned how to disguise and put away his absolute and utter terror in those final and crucial moments.

He feels no bravery as he rushes forward against the shadowed mass of the opposing force. The lump that grows in his throat is not composed of powerful, patriotic emotion. He is so small. So young. So foolish. He wants to turn to his brother, his comrades, his friends, and tell them so. He wants to retreat, to pull away into the comforting confines of the woods, of his castle, of the cozy little brick house on Brighton Crescent with the shabby brown wallpaper and the smell of cheap coffee. He wants to act his age.

But he won't. He can't. Instead, he sets his jaw, squares his shoulders, steadies his gaze. And does his duty.

Fin.