by Anne Groß
A fair punishment, Thomas thought. A misfire from an ill-kept weapon was certainly no laughing matter and the carelessness had to be checked. It was likely that Taylor would find some reason to force Cox to clean his musket multiple times a night before passing inspection, which meant that between caring for his weapon and standing guard, Cox would only be able to snatch a few hours’ sleep at a time. Despite this, Cox got off easy, and everyone knew it.
“Hum, hum. I must say,” Major Letchfeld said. His disapproving huffing sounds made his round belly bounce on top of his stout thighs. He paused, as though trying to decide what exactly must be said. “I say,” he tried again, and tut-tutted. Then he continued down the line, studying each man for irregularities. Finally, he reached Thomas. “Oh hooo!” he exclaimed, standing in front of him. “Isn’t this the man we caught in the brawl? Yes, I believe he is. Him and that other fellow behind him. The French will piss themselves just looking at him. A rare specimen—a true veteran. Ah, the battles you must have seen, Private. . .”
“Private MacEwan, sir.”
“Where did you get those honorable scars, Private MacEwan? Buenos Aires?” He pointed to Thomas’s face.
“The streets of London, sir,” replied Thomas. The major looked confused.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Sergeant Taylor piped in. “That one there’s a new recruit.”
“Streets of London. . .?” Letchfeld backed away from Thomas to get a better look at him, from his polished shoes to the top of his feathered shako. “It’s easy to forget, isn’t it, James?” he addressed Lieutenant Mason, but couldn’t take his eyes off Thomas. “They look so damn sharp in their uniforms, it’s easy to forget they’re all criminals. I don’t doubt this one’s murdered a few men.”
“So you say, sir. I believe that was your assessment after we caught him brawling. He’s the one I told you about. Private Thomas MacEwan: the singer.”
“Singer? This ruffian?” Now he stepped in close, so that Thomas felt the need to straighten himself taller just to make more space between them. “Tell me, Private MacEwan, do you like singing?”
“Yes, sir! Been singing all my life—it goes with the job.”
“A singing murderer,” the major laughed. “How poetic.”
“Publican, sir,” Thomas corrected, “I was a barman before I took the king’s shilling. A drink always goes best with a song, sir.”
“I was under the impression that Ferrington there, our fine fiddler, was the publican.”
“My former employer, sir.”
Major Letchfeld’s eyes shifted from Thomas’s scarred face to Richard’s smooth skin and handsome features, then back to Thomas again. It was obvious to Thomas that the major was weaving a story about his past. “My wife’s been telling me all about the tall blond private who plays the violin. These are hard times indeed when such talent languishes amongst this lot.” He waved derisively towards the rest of the soldiers. “Private Ferrington, you must put on a concert for us at dinner tonight. Betsy would be charmed.”
“Delighted, sir. Delighted.” Richard grinned.
Major Letchfeld clucked happily, then turned back to Thomas, and his expression quickly changed back to severe disapproval. “Tell me, Private: do you like your tongue?”
“I find it very useful, sir.”
“Then I’d better not hear you’ve been singing that traitorous song again or I’ll cut it out. Am I understood?”
The major’s tall hat reached the tip of Thomas’s nose. It was disconcerting to be threatened by a man so short you could see over the top of his head. “Begging your pardon, sir. Which song would that be? I sing many.”
“What was the song, James?” Letchfeld demanded. “Something written by that dreadful Scotch rhymer?”
“‘A Man’s a Man,’ sir?” Richard piped in.
Thomas had to stop himself from heaving an exasperated sigh. Always ebullient, never helpful: that would be Richard.
“That’s the one.” Major Letchfeld smiled delightedly. “Let us never hear that song again, shall we? Shall we Private MacEwan?”
Thomas leaned forward slightly and turned his ear towards the major. “Which song, sir? I didn’t hear, sir. My ears are still ringing.” He wanted Letchfeld say the words.
“‘A Man’s a Man, for A’ That!’” shouted the major.
“Yes, sir! He is indeed, sir,” shouted Thomas back. Despite Lieutenant Mason’s scowl, promising further uncomfortable interactions, his mood lifted slightly as the major turned his attention back to Richard.
“Good. Good. Well, I’ve seen enough. Fine looking lads. Keep them sharp, Sergeant Taylor, and watch out for that MacEwan. He’s a sullen one. Ever plotting, that one, up to no good.” The major ambled off towards the cabins where cool wine and his warm young wife awaited.
The second after the men were dismissed, their spines collapsed back into normal alignments, causing all their gear to clang. With the officers gone, Hobert felt free to clap Cox on his head, knocking off his shako. “Don’t worry,” he wheezed loudly. “With all this hard tack we’ve been eatin’ we’re all a little clogged in our touchholes.”
“That scamp,” Richard laughed at Billy, who was clutching his drum protectively as he was pushed and shoved good-naturedly between the older soldiers. “Reminds me of our own Johnny, doesn’t he?” Thomas allowed that he did, and swallowed a pang of homesickness.
Much like Johnny, the boy was carefree to the point of being slippery—that’s what these boys were these days. No sense of responsibility; no sense of shame. Thomas strode away from Richard mid-prattle and grabbed Bill by the arm. “Listen to me,” he growled. The boy’s eyes opened wide in alarm. “You watch yourself. You won’t be everyone’s darling for long. Soon enough you’ll be everyone’s fool and when that happens it won’t be a gentle swat you’ll be getting like today, you’ll be feeling the licking end of the lash. Keep your head down, boy, and just beat your damn drum, or it’ll be me as beats you.”
Bill twirled and twisted to escape Thomas’s tight grip. “Let him be, MacEwan,” laughed Collins. He was standing with Richard, and the two of them were smiling sardonically, likely at his expense. “It was a harmless jest.”
Thomas opened his hand, and the boy ran off to scamper up the mainmast where his new friend, the tiny Midshipman Donegal, was on watch. “You know I’m right, Peter,” Thomas said. He pulled his shako off his head and pushed his fingers through his dark hair. He hated his hat.
“If Bill needs a wet nurse, my wife could help him better than you. Lay off the poor lad. You’d do better to look to your own problems. You think you’re making a grand example of keeping your head low?” Peter Collins didn’t bother to wipe the grin from his face when Thomas glowered and took two steps at him. “What’s that bit about a man being a man? I’m not looking for trouble from you, Tom. Just giving a bit of friendly advice.”
Thomas blew out the puffed up breath he’d been unconsciously holding and pushed his hand through his hair again, standing down. He didn’t want trouble either, that was sure. Not while in the army. He was fairly certain he wouldn’t get trouble from the sergeant, who knew better than to follow Letchfeld’s orders to keep an eye on him. Like Thomas, Taylor was from the gutter, and knew when there was a better man about. But Collins was different, a family man, a man Thomas wanted to keep at his side, close. “How’s your babe faring? Your missus?”
Thomas didn’t hear Collins’s reply. Richard was heading down between decks and he had a bone to pick. “Richard! A word, please.”
“Oh for pity’s sake, Tom,” Richard cried out. “What now?” The other soldiers filed past as the next company emerged into the light to take their place in the drill line.
“Have you gone entirely mad? They,” Thomas waved in the general direction of the forecastle where the officers kept apart from the enlisted men, “are just as dangerous as the French. And here you go making plans to dine with them.”
“Dine? Oh no, I’m not dining with
them. I wasn’t given that honor. I’m merely providing them with entertainment while they work their jaws.” Richard leaned forward conspiratorially. “Did you hear? The lovely Mrs. Letchfeld is interested in music and likes my fiddle.” He wagged his eyebrows. “Isn’t that wonderful?”
“Richard, stay away from the major’s wife.”
“How you do worry—” Richard’s thought was cut short by a vision at the corner of his eye. “Oh hell, there she is. What’s that woman up to now?”
“Who? Lady Letchfeld?”
“God grant it were so. My wife.”
Thomas turned in time to see Elise’s scruffy head rising from below deck, pushing men aside to force her way up against the flow. Just as soon as she had both of her big feet on the deck, she took off running with her skirts clutched above her knees and her loose auburn hair streaming behind her like a glorious banner in battle. The sight of her long legs knocked Thomas back two steps. The sight of her tears made him step forward.
“For pity’s sake,” Richard cried. “She’s going to climb the mast. She’ll ruin everything! Letchfeld will surely retract his invitation. I swear to you, Tom, that woman is not natural. You know it to be true—have you ever seen a woman climb like that? It’s simply not natural. She’s entirely immodest.”
“You’ve nought to complain about, Ferrington,” scoffed Collins. “If you don’t like it, correct it. You’ve only yourself to blame if she’s too frisky for your tastes.”
Since Richard was, himself, calling attention to his own wife, it didn’t seem untoward to Thomas to take another eyeful of Elise’s strong calves when the Atlantic wind blew up her skirt.
“Are you suggesting I beat her?”
“I’m suggesting you keep your piehole shut. Your wife gave me my daughter.”
“I’d find another way of putting that, if I were you.”
“Perhaps old Mr. Tilsdale was right,” Thomas said, thinking of a man he’d served regularly at the Quiet Woman. “Perhaps she is a bit of a lunatic. She’s certainly high-spirited.”
“Are those men gambling on my wife?” A group of sailors had stopped to watch Elise scale the ratlines. “They are! Those bastards are gambling on my wife!” Richard’s outrage seemed a little hypocritical to Thomas. “I’d wager the damned woman will go all the way to the top. In fact, I’ve no doubt in my mind. A sure bet.”
It was the one sure thing Richard would never deign to gamble on. The sad irony wasn’t lost on Thomas.
Elise barely noticed how the rope chafed against her palms. She was fixated on a platform above her, midway up the mast. A hole had been cut to allow access to the platform from below, and she imagined herself emerging through into a sanctuary. Seated on that platform, she would have nothing but the freedom of the open sky. She would fly back to her own time. She would soar upwards, leap from the platform and be sucked up towards heaven and carried home.
Suspended high over the rail as she clung to the ratlines, it soon became impossible to know if she was still crying, or if the water streaking her cheeks was just ocean spray. Were her eyes burning from hot tears or the brisk wind? She blinked hard and squinted down at the deck, far below, swaying in a direction sickeningly at odds with her own motion. When the ship slipped over a rise in the waves and fell into the trough, Elise’s weight fell forward against the net while the deck rose up behind her. Just as disconcertingly, when ship rose with the swell and heeled starboard, her weight fell away from the lines and over the water, causing her to grip the net with desperation while the fore deck rose up in front of her. She swallowed hard to quell the vertigo that caused her stomach to surge.
She was just ten feet from reaching her goal when Bill Stanton’s round face appeared, framed by the hole in the platform. For a moment she considered climbing back down. Even the sky was full of people, she thought bitterly.
“I’ve won; she’s made it.” The wind carried the young drummer’s voice to her. “I’ll give you my stockings this evening, and you’re not to darn them slap-dash. I expect neat stitches.”
“No! Look, she’s stopped. It’s not settled.” The authority of a second boy’s opinion was undermined when his youthful voice cracked. “The bet was that she climb all the way onto the platform. That was the agreement.”
They were questioning her ability, not her desire to climb. Elise tore the rest of the way up the ratlines. George Russell’s words were still echoing in her head, and if she heard the words “fairer” and “sex” she knew she’d get violent, especially if it was from a pair of dumbassed teens.
When she stuck her head through the lubber hole, Bill hooted his pleasure. On the platform next to him, with knees slightly bent to accommodate the rocking floor beneath, was another youth Elise recognized as belonging to the sailors—a midshipman and mini mascot in full naval regalia. Both boys clung to ropes that continued further up the mast.
“Begging your pardon, madam,” said the small officer, “if you could be so kind as to complete your ascent on your own. I’m afraid neither Bill nor I can come to your aid as it would undermine any conclusions as to the winner of our bet.”
Elise pulled herself through the hole, but vertigo and the swaying boards kept her from standing. “What if it’s just my ass on the platform?” she asked. “Who wins then?”
The two boys looked at each other. Plainly, they hadn’t thought of that scenario.
“If she hasn’t the courage to stand, I don’t see that—”
“The wager was whether she had enough courage to reach the platform, not to stand upon it.”
“Please stop talking like I’m not here.”
“Your pardon, madam. We do not mean any disrespect,” said the smaller boy.
“You’re plenty disrespectful all the same,” Elise drawled. “Don’t worry, I’m getting used to it.”
The midshipman suddenly found his manners and bowed formally with one foot in front of the other while keeping one steadying hand still on the lines. “Welcome,” he said, “I believe you are the first lady ever to have graced the Valiant’s fighting top. Given that there have been plenty of lubbers who couldn’t find the courage to climb, you have my utmost respect.”
“I just wanted to look at the view.” She was sure the view would have been a better experience seen alone.
“Then you’re a woman after my own heart, Mrs. Ferrington,” Bill said with a sigh. “I’m not sure how anyone can live without having ever seen the sea from a ship’s masthead. But the fighting top is more comfortable, I suppose.” He settled down on the edge of the platform to swing his legs into the air, wrapping himself in the protection of the netting. “Come join me. You can see the edge of the world from here.”
“I am Gerald Donegal, at your service,” said the younger boy, realizing he would never be introduced by his rude friend. “Let it be known that, although I did bet against you, I have never been more pleased to be wrong.”
“Don’t be fooled by his uniform or his manner, Mrs. Ferrington,” Bill drawled. “Gerry may have a tidier coat than mine, but his stockings are still riddled with holes. Mine, on the other hand, will soon be as good as new.”
It felt strange and unfamiliar to have the corners of her mouth curl into a smile. When Bill made room for Elise to sit down next to him, she gladly accepted his invitation. Six legs in a row swung casually over a long drop to the deck below. “What are you boys doing up here?” Elise asked.
“I’m on watch,” Gerry responded, “but I’ve no idea why Bill is here.”
“I’m here for the peace and quiet,” Bill said. The left side of his face was red and beginning to bruise. Elise felt a flare of anger at the evidence of a beating, then swallowed hard and tried push her anger away.
“Shouldn’t you be down there with those guys?” Elise pointed to a small crowd of men that were trying to form two rows around coiled ropes and open hatches near the bow of the ship. Sailors cut through the line of infantrymen as they tugged a sheet to tighten a sail, heaving in tand
em on the rope. Finally, the sergeant whipped his soldiers into forming rank.
“Those lads?” Bill derided. “Those are fine lads, to be sure, but not sharp like the men in our own company.” He puffed himself up a little with pride. “Our Sergeant Taylor would have us shooting three rounds a minute.
Our own—the words sounded hollow in Elise’s head. She wished she could feel as possessive as Bill about the men whose wounds she knew she’d soon be patching. Her company was tied to the Forty-Fifth Regiment of Foot, but that knowledge didn’t inspire any feelings of pride. When you don’t know the players, or the rules, there wasn’t much point in picking sides.
“I still think it’s odd that after spending so long fighting the Spanish in America, the 45th is now asked to save the Spanish from the French,” Bill mused.
“These guys were in America?” Elise asked with a twitch. She gazed out at the horizon, across the sails of two other ships in the fleet and tried not to feel cheated, once again, by time.
“Not all of them,” Bill said. “Not me. Not your husband. Many of us were just recently recruited. But a good number were indeed in Buenos Aires.” He shook his head in wonder. “It’s a soldier’s life to see the world. I don’t envy the lads that stayed home.”
Buenos Aires. Elise’s eyes bugged at the information. She had wanted desperately to get to America, but Buenos Aires? Wasn’t that in Brazil? No, wait, Argentina. She frowned, positive that wherever it was in South America, it would have taken forever to get from there to Tucson, Arizona. Why had she assumed any ship going to America would land someplace like Boston or Virginia?
“I don’t envy those who fought in America,” Gerry responded. “They’re a sad lot, they are. No one’s shown any regard for their efforts.”