The Resolute Runaway

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  Ah, her husband would be scolding her for such gloomy thoughts if he were here.

  Mary Kate stepped back inside the tent and moved to where the poor English girl was sleeping on the ground beside her brother’s pallet. Miss Pettigrew deserved her rest. She had worked as hard as any seasoned campaigner throughout the night, pausing only briefly now and then to check on her brother, who had not regained consciousness.

  She had proved surprisingly resilient despite her small size, and her courage had equaled her brother’s. Captain Pettigrew was not the only brave English officer who had given his all for his country. The Highlanders had suffered the worst, but their courage had allowed the rest of the English forces to retreat in good order.

  Many a wife and mother, sister and daughter, would be heartbroken when they received news of Quatre Bras. And even more after the fighting today at Mont St. John.

  Somewhere a cock crowed, and Miss Pettigrew stirred, then sat up, looking around in bewilderment, as if not remembering where she was. Then her eyes fell on her brother, and she gasped. Bending over him, she began to weep. The reason was readily apparent: Captain Pettigrew’s sufferings were at an end.

  “Come, colleen.” Mary Kate put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “There is nothing more for you to do here. I’ll walk along with you and see you back safe and sound in your lodgings. Doubtless your friends will be wondering what has become of you.”

  Although still racked by deep sobs, Miss Pettigrew allowed herself to be helped to her feet, and then Mary Kate led the way through the streets of Brussels, which were again thronged with desperate civilians. Yesterday it had been only the English and other foreigners who were in a panic to escape the French army. Today even the Bruxelloises were running around like chickens with their heads twisted off.

  It was not a safe city for a young girl to walk through alone, but Mary Kate was large enough to handle any drunken lout or thieving deserter they might encounter.

  * * * *

  Joanna had a feeling of disorientation when she and Mary Kate stepped inside the foyer of the hotel where she was staying with the Dillons. It was so familiar, so normal, as if her whole world had not been wrenched apart, as if there had been no battle, as if she had not spent the night tending wounded soldiers and watching them die ... as if even now her brother was not being buried with the others in a common grave.

  In a trance, she led the way toward the stairs, but to her amazement, the landlady blocked their way.

  “And just where do you think you are going?” the woman demanded in a harsh voice.

  For a moment Joanna was too surprised to answer, but then she replied calmly, “My friend and I are going to my room.”

  “You do not have a room here.”

  The anger Joanna felt at the world in general for allowing her brother to die now had a focus. “I am staying with the Dillons, as well you know, so stand aside,” she said sharply, trying to push past.

  The woman, who outweighed her by at least three stone, easily resisted her efforts. “The Dillons left for Antwerp hours ago.”

  Bewildered, her tired mind unable to grasp the significance of what the woman was saying, Joanna ceased her efforts to gain the sanctuary of her room.

  “So we’ve no place for the likes of you in my house,” the woman went on. “We run a respectable establishment here. I must ask you to leave at once.”

  “Just a minute, my good woman.” Mary Kate’s soft Irish voice had a hint of steel. “We are not leaving without Miss Pettigrew’s belongings.”

  “The Englishwomen took everything with them. They left nothing behind for this one,” the landlady said.

  Mary Kate moved past Joanna and, grasping the landlady by the arms, easily lifted her off her feet. Holding her suspended in midair, the sergeant’s wife said angrily, “You will fetch out the young lady’s baggage at once, do I make my meaning clear? Any delay will cost you dearly.”

  “But I cannot give you what I do not have, and ‘tis gone—everything is gone,” the woman protested.

  Mary Kate did not bother to answer; she just shook the woman the way a dog shakes a rat.

  “Stop, stop,” the landlady began to shriek. “I’ll get it if you will just put me down.”

  She was dropped the few inches to the floor, and she instantly darted into a room to the left of the stairs. She tried to shut the door behind her, but Mary Kate could move fast for a woman her size, and she easily held the door open.

  The landlady glared at her large adversary, as if estimating her chances of outwitting the Irishwoman. Then, apparently accepting the inevitable, she vanished into her room and reappeared a few minutes later, producing the portmanteau Belinda had given Joanna to use. Instead of picking it up, Mary Kate opened it.

  “Come and check it, miss,” she called to Joanna. “This thieving woman may have already stolen something.”

  The landlady puffed up like an enraged hen. “I am not a thief; I am an honest citizen.”

  “We have already had a sample of your honesty,” Mary Kate replied bluntly. “You are a liar and a thief, and a very bad one at that.”

  The landlady was not about to let the insult pass, and she began to screech at Mary Kate.

  Although she could not bring herself to care about such trivial things, Joanna checked her belongings. As near as she could remember, they were all there—her father’s medals and her mother’s miniature, and the numerous dresses, ribbons, and shoes that Belinda had given her.

  Closing her portmanteau again, she picked it up and moved blindly toward the door. Behind her Mary Kate and the landlady continued to berate one another.

  Joanna paused on the steps and looked at the city of Brussels, which was spread out around her. In all the thousands of houses, large and small, elegant and shabby, there was no place she could call home—no relative she could turn to, no big brother to take care of her.

  In her memory she saw Captain Goldsborough’s face, heard him say he would be like another brother. Was he still alive somewhere out there? Or did he lie dead like Mark?

  She should never have left her uncle’s house, never ... but then, if she had not, her brother would have died alone, with no one beside him who loved him....

  Dry-eyed, she stood there reliving her few precious moments with her brother—the morning of their first reunion ... the afternoon he had taken her to watch his regiment on parade ... the evening he had danced with her...

  So few memories, yet so precious.

  The angry voices behind her ceased with a crashing of doors, and then Mary Kate emerged from the hotel. Taking the portmanteau from Joanna’s hand, she said, “Come along with me. There’s always room for one more at my lodgings if you don’t mind sharing a bed.”

  Despite her fierce efforts to maintain control of her emotions, Joanna now began to tremble all over in reaction to the events of the past few hours, and she suddenly felt too weak to put one foot in front of the other.

  Mary Kate put one arm around Joanna’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “I don’t snore, so that you can be thankful for. My mother always said no matter how dark it seems, if you think hard enough, sure and you’ll find something to be thankful for.”

  It seemed very dark to Joanna. Indeed, it was the darkest day of her life, darker even than when her mother had died, because then at least she had still had Mark. But with Mary Kate’s strong arm to lean on, Joanna managed a fragile smile.

  * * * *

  Nicholas stood with his batman at the edge of the regimental encampment, looking out across the plain at the white buildings of Paris. For twelve days the regiment, with the rest of the allied army, had made their way unopposed through the French countryside. Then on the first of July, the Prussian guns had commenced firing, but no orders had come down for them to join the battle.

  Finally, yesterday, the fourth day of July, the guns had remained silent, and instead of artillery shells, rumors had been flying—rumors that the French were suing for peace.
<
br />   “Did you ever expect, Elston, that they would allow us to chase them right up to the very gates of their capital?”

  His batman spat on the ground. “Them frogs are a difficult folk to understand. Lettin’ us march through their villages, and ‘stead of tryin’ to stop us, they just waves their little flags and cries out, ‘Welcome, welcome, thank you for invadin’ our country.’ Like to turn my stomach, it does. A nation of cowards and turncoats, they are.” He laughed. “Can you picture such a thing happenin’ in England? A French army marchin’ right up to the gates of London ‘thout a shot being fired? I think not.”

  Nicholas laughed, but there was more bitterness than humor in his laughter. Too many of his friends lay buried in Spain and now in Belgium also. And too many of those still living would carry the wounds of battle to their dying day. And all because of that egotistical maniac who had twice set out to conquer the world. “You are right. It is as inconceivable as imagining the Duke of Wellington deposing the Prince Regent and crowning himself Emperor of All Britain.”

  Beside him Elston chuckled, then added, “And settin’ his brother up as King of Scotland, and another brother King of Ireland, and proclaimin’ his son King of the Channel Isles.”

  They were interrupted by a messenger, who brought not only a packet of letters that had been following them from Brussels but also the welcome news that the campaign was indeed over, the first of the treaties having already been signed.

  Nicholas was reading a letter from his sister, full of news of little Louisa and the twins, Catherine and Edward, when Sergeant O’Flannagan approached him. “You’d better read this, sir.”

  Taking the note, Nicholas read:

  mondaye the 19th my dere paddy—i hope this Letr fines you welle i Looke forwarde to Seeing you agine please tell captn golsboro that captn petrigrus Sistr is with me he is ded an her frens wente off and Lefte her aske him what he thinks is best done yore Loving wife mary kate.

  Unable to believe what he was reading, Nicholas scanned the short note a second and third time, but the message did not change. As inconceivable as it was, the Dillons had apparently left Brussels without taking Joanna. How could a man calling himself a gentleman have done such a despicable thing—abandon a young girl after having once assumed responsibility for her?

  Nicholas cursed Belinda’s father. Despite his social standing, the man still had the soul of a tradesman and was apparently less concerned with doing the honorable thing than with saving his own skin and his moneybags.

  As great as was Nicholas’s rage, it was nothing compared to his fears. Mark’s sister had already been alone for two and a half weeks, and it would be more days—perhaps even weeks—before he could resign his commission and return to Brussels. He could not begin to imagine how terrifying it must be for her.

  “My Mary Kate will be taking good care of the child,” O’Flannagan said in a gruff voice. “You need have no worries on that score. But still and all, it would be best if we knew how to get her back to her kinfolk.”

  Nicholas remembered the promise he had made Mark—a promise he could no longer redeem since Mark was dead. But on the other hand, he could still carry out the spirit of the promise—he could not find Mark a position that would enable Mark to provide his sister with a home, but Nicholas could escort Miss Pettigrew back to her uncle in England. At the very least, he owed his friend that much.

  Again the sergeant spoke up. “If you could think on the problem and let me know what might be best?”

  “I shall handle the problem personally,” Nicholas said harshly, his mind already turning to practical matters, such as deciding whom he would need to speak to first about obtaining permission to sell out. Elston had already told him that he had no interest in returning to civilian life, so Nicholas would also have to ask around and see if he could find another officer who might be needing a batman.

  As for himself, he did not regret for a moment leaving the army. Unlike his brother-in-law, who had not wished to resign his commission and take up the title of Duke of Colthurst, Nicholas had long ago lost whatever taste he’d had in the beginning for the military life, and he would be quite content if he never saw a uniform again or heard another shot fired in anger.

  Darius might find honor on the battlefield, but all Nicholas could see in war was needless death and destruction.

  * * * *

  The skirl of the bagpipes crowded the cottage and spilled out into the night. As if competing with the storm outside, the music became ever wilder, the tempo ever quicker. One by one the other dancers were forced to retire to the edges of the room until Alexander had the center of the floor to himself, the only one able to keep his feet moving nimbly enough to follow where the wailing melody led.

  Abruptly the music stopped, and in the resulting silence he heard an unexpected voice. Turning toward the door, he saw the familiar figure of his estate manager, the shoulders of his coat soaked through from the rain.

  “Lads,” he called out, a smile of welcome on his face, “I make known to you Walter Robertson. He is a bit dour, but then, he’s from the south, born in Glasgow. Walter, what brings you here to Barra?”

  Robertson did not return his smile. “I’ve a message from your mother. She has need of you in Edinburgh.”

  “Ach, no, she has not found herself another young lady trying her best to catch a braw Highlander, has she? Well, tell her I am still not available.”

  “Tis not a trick this time. Wellington has defeated Napoleon at a little town in Belgium.”

  Immediately a wild cheer went up from the assembled party, but when Robertson remained looking grim, they gradually quieted down. “They say we lost a full third of our troops,” he continued when the room was still enough that he could again be heard.

  At his words, the mood of the room became somber, and there were no cheers or smiles when he continued, “The Highland regiments were almost wiped out. Your cousins Ian and Hugh are both gone, as well as Jamie McDowell and Neil Buchanan. And young John McBoyle has lost a leg.” Robertson reached inside his coat and produced a packet wrapped in oilskin. “I’ve brought an account of the fighting.”

  Several hours later, after the dispatches had been read and discussed, and the other islanders had one by one left for their own cottages, Alexander sat with his host, an old man upward of eighty.

  “My four sons were all lost at sea in a storm thirty-eight years ago last April, and my wife died seventeen years ago this November,” he said, then fell silent for a long while before he finally spoke again. “I am old and I have grown accustomed to living alone, but there are times like this when I long to have a grandchild beside me. Someone to take care of my croft when I am gone. Someone to live here in this cottage where my father and grandfather and great-grandfather lived. Someone to fish the waters where I have fished for sixty-seven years.”

  Alexander stared into the fire, and in its flickering depths he could see the faces of his cousins and friends, so young, so vigorous, so full of life.

  So young ... and now they would never grow old, never marry, never have children. Alexander began to rethink his decision not to marry and settle down. “Life is uncertain,” he said. His statement sounded so simple, and yet it was actually quite profound, he realized for the first time. There were no promises, no guarantees that the tomorrows would keep turning into todays.

  “Aye, life is a fragile gift. That is a lesson all fishermen learn early on,” replied the old man. “‘Tis not given to us to know the span of our lifetime until we come to the end, when that knowledge is of little advantage. My father always told me we must live each day as if it is our last, never letting the sun set on an injustice or a quarrel, lest we be taken during the night.”

  Laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder, Alexander said, “I thank you for the hospitality you have shown me, and regret that I must leave you on the morrow. But my mother has need of me now.” To himself he added: And ‘tis time I stopped delaying and set about the necessary
business of finding myself a wife.

  * * * *

  Joanna lifted the lid of the soup pot, in which an old rooster had been stewing all day. The bird, as tough as it was, represented half the sum of money she had received for the last of the dresses Belinda had given her. By selling them, she had managed to contribute a little toward the expenses for the meals and lodging she and Mary Kate shared.

  When this money was gone, she would be forced to sell her father’s medals and her mother’s miniature. And when that money was also gone, she had no idea how she would proceed. For hours on end she had racked her brain to think of some way to support herself, but she had no skills, no particular talents, nor was she strong enough to work as a laborer in the fields. She did not even know French or Flemish or Dutch, and so could not even attempt to find a position in a shop.

  To be sure, the sergeant’s wife would not throw her out on the streets. Mary Kate had made that quite clear. But Joanna could not accept endless charity, either.

  She lifted a spoonful of the broth, blew on it to cool it, then tasted it. Something was still lacking, but she did not have enough experience with cooking to tell what it was.

  Behind her the door opened, and without turning to see who was there, she said, “Come and taste this and see if you think it needs more basil or more pepper.”

  A man’s voice answered her. “From the delectable aroma, I would say that the only thing that stew is still lacking is a loaf of fresh bread to eat it with.”

  Even when she turned and saw Captain Goldsborough standing in the doorway smiling at her, she could not believe he was really there. She had hoped too long in vain to accept easily that her unspoken wish, her deepest longing, had come true.

  Chapter 5

  Miss Pettigrew was even thinner than Nicholas remembered, and her eyes looked bruised in her gaunt face. In the interval since he had said good-bye to her, she seemed to have aged years rather than weeks, and it was obvious life had not been treating her gently. He could only thank a merciful providence that Mrs. O’Flannagan had chanced upon her. Again he cursed the Dillons for the callous way they had abandoned a defenseless young girl. Such cowardly behavior demanded retribution, but for now, Miss Pettigrew’s welfare must come first.