‘If ever we do get home,’ said Will. ‘Last night there was a case of cholera in ours; Jenkins of C Troop died.’
‘Our first loss,’ said Jack sadly. ‘I wonder who’ll be next.’
During the days that followed, the dread scourge, cholera, raged in the camp; day after day the burying-parties were busy, and dozens died off. The heat was intolerable, the camp a regular hotbed of pestilence. The water was full of animalcules, and it was learnt that seven thousand Russians who had perished of cholera in the campaign of 1828 were buried in the vicinity of the British camp, the spot having been christened by the Muscovites ‘The Valley of the Plague.’
Many of the men took to drinking heavily, thinking thus to keep off cholera; alas! they only lessened their chances of avoiding it.
Napper continued to drink as before, and since his reduction he seemed to hate Jack more and more. One morning, at watering-parade, he and Jack being together and some distance from the others, the former, who was of course mounted on Dainty, could not get her down to the water. He dismounted and dragged angrily at her headstall; but the mare still refused to drink. Napper then kicked her twice, savagely, which so enraged Jack that he cried out, ‘Let her alone, you brute, or I’ll report you.’
‘I’ll treat you the same if you interfere with me,’ said Napper furiously, and he struck the mare on the muzzle, and was again about to kick her when Jack slipped from his own horse, and catching Napper by the collar of his jacket, hurled him on his back.
Napper arose, literally livid with rage. For a moment he could not speak; then with eyes blazing with rage he hissed, ‘John Blair, I hate you; you’ve been my curse ever since you joined. The same regiment isn’t big enough for us. You got me broke. I’ll have your life.’
‘You brought your bad luck on yourself,’ answered Jack.
‘You lie; it’s you; it’s always you. I’ll fight you; we’ll settle up once and for all.’
‘I’m ready.’