by Anne Groß
Despite a nicotine habit Elise had never been able to kick, the years of a long-distance running routine made the march more tolerable for her. It wasn’t a lack of endurance that made her tired, it was a lack of comfort. While the soldiers slogged through the loose sand, she walked where the waves broke and tamped the ground for more solid footing. That helped, but still her shoulders chafed under the straps of her badly balanced pack of medical supplies. Her tight corset dug into her ribs. Soaked in sweat, everything clung to her skin.
As the morning faded towards noon, the heat began to rise, stirring the insects. Off the beach in the shelter of the reeds, the cicadas trilled. The sound brought back memories of the desert in Tucson, of the arching shade of the palo verde trees, of ice cold margaritas on the back patio. The heat also caused the flies to stir from the line of decomposing ocean debris the waves pushed onto shore. The black flies buzzed around Elise’s face and caught rides on her clothing. The brave ones bit her before she could swat them away. Smaller insects, no larger than grains of sand, hovered near the ground and were caught up in the hem of her skirt and trapped around her legs.
It had been smart to start early to get as many miles out of the way as possible before the sun got too hot. Despite the fact that much had been left behind on the ships to supply the men along the way as they marched south down the beach, they were still expected to carry their own food and water. And despite the heat, they were regulated to strap their heavy wool greatcoats and blankets on the top of their packs, which were already full of their gear. Many also carried comfort items, like a straight blade for shaving, soap, extra clothes, pots for cooking, shoe polish and metal polish for keeping their gear looking sharp for inspection, all of which added weight. Their Brown Bess muskets weren’t light either—ten pounds of walnut and iron, coupled with iron rounds, cartridge, and a horn full of gunpowder. Elise had even seen a soldier, who had been a cobbler in his former life, pack a heavy iron hammer and a cobblestone in his kitbag in anticipation of needing to mend shoes while on the march.
The men slowed as the day got hotter, plodding forward steadily under their burdens. Elise found herself flanking the column, then passing the overburdened light infantry altogether. To her surprise, as soon as she reached the riflemen in front, an officer on horseback waved her back to the rear. “It isn’t safe for you in front!” admonished a rifleman as she turned around.
“Then walk a little faster,” she snapped.
It annoyed her that anyone would check her speed or limit her range.
Another rifleman laughed. “Pay her no mind. That’s loony Mrs. Ferrington—she’ll do as she pleases. Made quite a name for herself on the Valiant.”
“She can do as she pleases, as long as it’s behind the column. Not in front.”
Elise made a face and cut east to leave the beach behind. She found a dusty and rutted path that snaked in the same direction as the marching army, and followed it through mounds of heather, tall grasses, and fragrant wild rosemary. Further out where the sand gave way to loam, row after row of staked grapevines revealed a countryside sparsely inhabited, but well stewed in wine.
The emptiness of the landscape felt alien to Elise who, since entering the nineteenth century, had been in constant contact with other people. She could still hear the movement of the army on the beach—anyone within a mile of the army would hear the squeaking of leather and the clanking of metal on metal as their kits bounced in rhythm to their march. It was a haunting soundtrack to play behind her view of the hills, dotted with lonely vineyards scratched out of the wild and fragrant scrubland. Briefly she thought of Tucson and its rushing traffic, the startling sounds of booming Air Force jets, the scattered conversation of passing strangers on the street. She missed it, but at the same time, it was hard not to overlay what she saw with the knowledge that in two hundred years, the pretty rolling hills would, in all likelihood, be paved over. It reminded her of her conversation with Avó the night before, and of her pointed question: are there still wars in the future?
Elise pulled her knife and cut a sprig of rosemary to lace into the woven straw of her hat. Then she gathered more to give to Mrs. Gillihan to flavor her stews, along with wild thyme that carpeted the edges of the path. As she bundled the stems together, she crushed the leaves and breathed in the summery scent.
Elise scanned the prickly vegetation as she pushed her way through the wilderness, her mind occupied with vague memories of the lesson Mrs. Southill had given her on medicinal plants. She had a small bundle of yarrow in her kitbag, or what the old lady had called “soldier’s woundwart,” but Elise was on the hunt for more. Luckily the white flowers were fairly easy to recognize. As she bent to gather the feathery leaves, a sudden explosion of noise made her fall back in surprise as a pair of partridges were flushed out of the undergrowth with raucous cries. When the sound of their panicked escape died away, her own pounding heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears. There was no other sound. The soldiers had stopped marching.
Branches tore at Elise’s clothing as she bushwhacked back to the beach to see what was happening. She was just a few feet away when a bright streak of green and brown leaped at her from her left side and tackled her to the ground. It happened so fast she didn’t even have time to fight. She was steamrolled onto her back and pinned with her wrists caught over her head. “Well hello, love,” the man said, grinning under a complicated mustache that curled into his sideburns.
“Get off of me!” Elise bucked her hips to dislodge the man, and he whooped in delight, then flattened himself along the length of her to stop her from fighting. He smelled like the salty flesh of the mussels they’d eaten the afternoon before, fresh from the ocean. Elise went limp, hoping to draw him into a false sense of security. “If you think this is fun,” she growled, “you should try it with me on top.”
He looked at her in surprise, his smile spreading, but he wasn’t about to be tricked into giving her control. “You speak English. You’re one of ours, then? What are you doing so far out in front?”
“Let me up, you idiot. My husband’s in the Forty-Third Regiment, Second Division.” Elise took a breath, suddenly confused. “I mean, 42nd, third division?” She paused, “Wait, 45th. . .I think.”
“Oh, you’re quite convincing, aren’t you?” He slammed her wrists back down above her head as she started struggling again, then leaned his face close to hers and whispered against her cheek. His mustache created tingles down her spine as it grazed her skin. “You’ve a strange accent. Perhaps you’re a spy? Sneaking about in the fields, are you?”
“Private Drake! What the hell are you about?” A commanding voice boomed above them. “Let that woman up at once.”
Drake leapt to his feet and stood at attention. “A spy, sir.”
“A spy?” the officer’s voice dripped in doubt. “Madam, your name please.”
“Elise Du. . .I mean, Mrs. Richard Ferrington.” She cringed at having erased her own name.
“Richard Ferrington?” the officer looked confused as Elise rose and brushed off her skirt. “You don’t mean to say you’re married to the Private Ferrington as plays the fiddle? He was playing for us just last night.”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
“Dick Ferrington is married? Well he’s a right scamp, isn’t he?” The officer clapped Private Drake on the shoulder, trying to draw him in on the joke. “I’d no idea he was married, what with the way he carries on with Lady Letchfeld.” Drake smiled in response, unsure how to respond.
Elise did not smile.
“Escort Mrs. Ferrington to the back of the column. Really, my dear, you shouldn’t be this far forward. It’s not safe.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“At your service, madam,” mumbled Private Drake, clearly disappointed to have missed his opportunity to rape a French spy. Elise slapped away his proffered elbow and slipped a couple of brass buttons she’d torn from his jacket into her apron pocket.
It didn’t take long to ge
t back to the beach and backtrack to the troops. A rest had been called, hence the silence Elise had noted earlier, and many of the men had simply sat down, still in the column. Those with more energy had dragged themselves away from the incessant flies and tried to hide from the sun in the spare shade of boulders and driftwood logs. Elise left Private Drake to return to his picket duties, or whatever else he was doing back in the weeds all alone.
The distinctive sound of Richard’s fiddle rose mournfully over the resting men, and Elise followed it to find her company.
“Brutal weather we’re having. Damned brutal,” Richard said, lifting his bow from his violin. He scooted over to make room for her under a wool blanket draped between four long sticks shoved deep into the sand. Bill Stanton lay at his feet, his head resting on his drum. “I’m not sure I can take much more of this. I’m sure this heat will make the wood crack.”
“All it takes to crack your wood is a couple bottles of wine and a wad of cash.” She knew he was referring to his instrument, but she couldn’t help herself.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a bit of water, would you?” he asked plaintively, ignoring her comment. “I’m clean out.”
Elise narrowed her eyes at him. His face was sunburnt, but more than that, his lips were swollen, and his eyes sunken and bloodshot. It wasn’t all that hot in comparison to a Tucson summer, but Richard was a man who’d never left the cool, damp streets of London. To him, this had to be hotter than hell. “Didn’t you fill your canteen before we left the river?” As the words left Elise’s mouth, she realized the futility of the question. Even if he had filled it to capacity, the canteen barely held a liter. She reached up to brush sand from his hair and realized it wasn’t sand at all but salt from his sweat. She felt a sudden dread. Richard, at least, was healthy, raised strong on Mrs. Postlethwaite’s bread and beef stew. Many of the other men weren’t as well off. Slogging through the beach with their heavy packs wasn’t going to be easy for them. And she was sure some, the younger ones especially, were dumb enough to have forgotten to refill their canteens before they’d broke camp.
She looked again at Bill. It was amazing how teenagers could fall asleep at the drop of a hat. Ever since he’d left his friend Gerry back on the Valiant, he’d been clinging to the men of the company like a security blanket. “How’s the kid?”
“Bill’s lagging a bit. We’ve redistributed some of the weight he’s carrying between us. Collins’s idea.”
Elise nodded, happy to hear they were looking out for the youth. Having lived in the Tucson desert for so long, she’d had the foresight to steal a second canteen while packing the surgeon’s medical supplies. But her second was only half full. She gently shook Bill and placed it to his lips when he stirred awake. “Easy, there. Just sip it,” Elise cautioned. Then she gave the last bit to Richard.
“What about Thomas?” she asked. “How’s he holding up?” She glanced around, looking for the barkeep. All the soldiers looked irritatingly similar in their uniforms. “Which way did he go?”
“I think I saw Tom head back into the bushes, so I don’t think he’d appreciate being looked for right now.”
Elise nodded. If he could still pee, he wouldn’t be too dehydrated. She tried to remember if she’d seen any sign of a stream on her earlier foray, any clusters of trees growing in a line or an oasis of bright green in the wide expanse of dusty sage. Nothing stood out in her memory but the drought tolerant grapevines that drooped in the hot sun. She looked at the heaped lumps in the sand that were resting men and felt a moment of panic. “Where’s the damn wagon train?” she said suddenly. “Wouldn’t the supply carts be carrying water barrels?”
“Perhaps,” replied Richard, doubtfully.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“Well, it’s just that we’re bound to come across a river or stream soon enough. Seems like a bloody waste of energy to be hauling barrels of water.”
Elise felt her jaw drop. She took a deep breath and swallowed hard. “Where’s the doctor?” she asked.
“Doctor? Do you mean Mr. Russell? For God’s sake, let me be. Stop asking so many questions. How should I know where our surgeon is?”
Russell, it turned out, wasn’t too far away.
“Mrs. Ferrington,” the surgeon began, “while I appreciate your concern for the wellbeing of the men, I cannot think how this scene you are creating does anything but stir trouble. You would do better to help the lads think of something other than their thirst.”
“Think of something else?” Elise repeated, dumbfounded. “People are going to die.”
“You do have a flare for the dramatic. Why should the army carry barrels of water? We just had a grand river full of water.”
“That was miles ago!”
“And there’s sure to be another river soon. Rivers empty into the ocean. That is what they do.”
“Look kiddo, you might not have noticed, but we’re not in England anymore. I’ve been a half mile forward of the column, and there wasn’t any water. Don’t forget, the human body is about sixty percent water, or should be. If we don’t get water soon, everyone’s brains are going to shrivel into raisins.”
The end to the rest was called. Elise gave Russell a significant look. “No one’s going to listen to me. They might listen to you. You need to tell the officers that the men need more water.”
The surgeon pinched his mouth into a line and looked away.
“Fine. It’s on your head, then,” Elise snapped.
Elise left to find where the other women were gathered. It didn’t take much to convince them to find some shade and wait out the heat before catching up with the soldiers. No one thought that marching in the heat of the day was a good idea, and Elise was thankful to not have to see the men suffering without having any means for alleviating it.
Four hours later and much refreshed, the women began their own march to find their husbands. The trail the army had left on the beach was easy to follow, and the camp followers hurried along, anxious to return to their loved ones.
The flotsam left behind by the army was small at first, and the women took the time to pick up the items—an iron pan here, a greatcoat there—thinking that the gear had been accidentally lost. But as they continued, the items grew in number until it became a long trail in the sand of abandoned personal goods—items of trivial weight, like combs and polishing cloths, revealing the desperation of the men to lighten their loads.
Elise wept over the first body she found, a young soldier, desiccated and sunburnt, had dragged himself to the tall fescue that lined the beach. She stepped over the next two bodies in her rush to catch up to the column, her heart clenched in fear for the safety of the men she knew.
The army’s trail turned east, as though a sudden change of mind had occurred, and followed a dusty and rutted road through alternating pine forests and vineyards. The women lifted their skirts and brushed the sand from their legs, as thankful as the men surely must have been, to leave the ocean behind. It was well after dark when they reached the little town of Lavos. The army had already laid their blankets down in the surrounding fields and dropped, exhausted and thirsty, into fitful sleep.
Elise and Mrs. Gillihan split from the other women and searched together through the mounded blankets looking for familiar faces. They found George Russell first. He was shadowed under the light of the stars and burdened by clattering canteens as he wandered from man to man. He looked at Elise with a hollow expression and nodded before he resumed passing out drinks of water to those too weak to have gone into the village to get it for themselves.
After the shock of the first day’s march, the men grew accustomed to the hardships and despite a brutally fast pace, the mood within the ranks was high, excited. No one questioned why they were being pushed so hard. The why of it was obvious to everyone: they were racing towards the enemy and that suited everyone just fine. Now that they’d left the scorching beach behind, all anyone could think about was killing. The anticipation
of it had risen to a fevered pitch, and why not? What was the alternative to the infantrymen being rushed to battle? Death. It would soon be kill or die, and the men would rather think about killing.
So when the sound of shots rang out, cutting through the quiet of the called rest, many men jumped to their feet with their weapons in hand. Others, not wanting to end the precious break in the march prematurely, waited for orders. From behind bushes, still others raced to return to the ranks after hastily finishing their business. They looked about anxiously and questioned their mates to find out what they missed, gaining no insight.
Three officers on horses rode by at a canter, heading south towards the front. A heavy silence descended after the beasts passed.
More shots.
“Easy, lads,” Sergeant Taylor called out to the company as he walked by, rounding up and counting his men. “This don’t concern us. Just stay together and don’t go nowheres.”
It was a simple instruction, but somehow comforting and better than silence. It gave the men something to do and reminded them of the value of cohesion. Stay together. Don’t go nowheres. “Ferrington, you idiot, put this blanket away. Get ready to go.” Taylor ripped the shading blanket down from where it had been pinned to three bushes and threw it at Richard. This was less comforting. “You,” he pointed at Elise, “fall back.”
“It’s the frogs,” Bill croaked out excitedly. He blinked away his nap and rubbed his eyes, squinting in the glare of the sun.
“Sounds like skirmishers to me,” Thomas appeared out of nowhere, buttoning his trousers. He shrugged on his pack and jammed his shako back on his head.
Now that Thomas had been recruited by the surgeon to be another aide, he spent most of his time marching with the medical supply carts. Whenever he did show up, it was to speak with Richard, or check in on Peter Collins. He didn’t speak to Elise. He didn’t even look at her. Elise hoped that the combination of his cold shoulder and scarcity would make being angry with him easier. It didn’t. Every time she saw him her stomach twisted into knots.