Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  As word spread throughout the company of men that Brook was determined to march all night rather than make camp, Wickham could tell the men were less than impressed by their circumstances. Once again, the grumbling started and spread like wildfire amongst them. He wondered if it was always this way with soldiers, or was it because this group of men were untested in battle and far too accustomed to their soft beds back at the barracks in the north of England? Whichever reason it was, Wickham prayed that soon the grumbling would stop and they would grow used to this new situation. He did not like it any more than the next man did, but he knew to keep his lip buttoned.

  On and on they marched, each of them footsore and weary from the heat. The sun was beginning to set, and Wickham’s stomach was embarrassingly rumbling loudly. From the pieces of conversation he overheard between the scouts and the captain and colonel, they estimated they were within an hour’s march of camp. This knowledge quickened their pace and lightened the mood somewhat. Ahead of them was a bare patch of forest, and Captain Brook signalled for them to stop. “We’ll take a short break here, men,” he called out. “Share what’s left of the water, and take your boots off and let your feet breathe a little.”

  Wickham found a patch of ground to sit on under a tree and stretched out his legs in front of him. He groaned as his forced his stiff body to lower itself down onto the hard ground. He dared not take off his boots as the captain suggested. He knew his feet were tired and aching and that if he took his boots off now, his feet would swell and he might never get the boots back on them again. It was far better to rest now and wait until they reached the camp and he could take off his boots for the night.

  Wickham laid his head back against the tree and realised how much the exertions of the day had taken out of him. He was not accustomed to marching. He usually rode on a horse or sauntered around town in a cab or gig. His muscles ached and his eyes were heavy with sleep as he sat in the cool shade. Within seconds, Wickham was asleep and awoke with a start, a few minutes later, as a soldier cried out. Instantly, with his heart pounding in his chest, he jumped to his feet and fumbled for his musket. He looked around for the assailant, or where the soldier was who was attacked, and saw nothing. However, to the left of the clearing, a few men were running back and forth trying to catch something. As his heartbeat normalised and he realised they were not under attack, he strained to see what it was that caused such a furore. Then he saw it—a black, hairy wild boar. He laughed as he watched the men scramble to catch the beast.

  “A boar!” Turpin chuckled as he sauntered over to his side. “Fancy having a go at capturing it?”

  Wickham shook his head at the thought. “No, let the men have their sport. God knows they deserve it.” He sank back down to the ground to watch the men having fun. It seemed the fat boar was more than a match for the men. Three men were joined by two more as a crowd gathered around them to cheer them on, but the boar slipped through their fingers each time one of them thought they had the creature cornered.

  “Why doesn’t someone just shoot the beggar?” someone hollered.

  “Because that would draw attention to our position,” came the response.

  Wickham chuckled and rolled his eyes in his head. As if the racket they’re making trying to catch the thing isn’t loud enough to draw attention already.

  The boar disappeared into a thicket as Wickham continued to look on, and the men chased after it and disappeared out of sight. He leant his head back against the tree and closed his eyes once more. If he could but rest a while, he knew his body would likely carry him the last few miles to their rendezvous point. His body grew heavy and the heat of the day lulled him to sleep.

  When Wickham awoke some time later, it was to the aroma of cooking. He wiggled his nose and sniffed the air as he came to, then opened his eyes. To his utter disbelief and astonishment, he saw that the men had indeed succeeded in capturing the elusive wild boar and the animal was inelegantly skewered on a pike, being spit-roasted over a roaring fire. He watched in amazement as the pike was rotated by two brawny men, and his mouth watered as the fat dripped from the creature into the fire, causing the flames to jump higher and lick at the browning meat above them.

  “Well, I never!” Wickham exclaimed.

  One of the men closest to him turned upon hearing his voice. “Oh, you’re awake, sir. I knew the smell’d wake you. Fancy some, then?” He grinned.

  “I most certainly do.” Wickham smiled back. “How did you catch the beast in the end?”

  The man laughed, showing his mostly toothless mouth. “I can’t rightly say, sir. We just kept chasing the thing and pounced on it from all sides. I think we only won through sheer numbers.” His eyes twinkled as he spoke.

  “I am certain that we will all be glad of your efforts this evening, Private. Very well done indeed!”

  “Thank you, sir.” The man beamed.

  The boar tasted better than Wickham could possibly have imagined. It was simply mouth-watering as they all gathered around the fire and ate slices and, more often than not, chunks of meat cut from the bone.

  “Thank God for that boar,” Wickham heard Sullivan mutter. “The men’s morale has improved no end.”

  Wickham nodded. He had to admit the verity of that statement. Despite the fact they would be late to the camp, there was now a sense of camaraderie that the men had, until then, not felt at all. They really were a rag-tag bunch of men who had enlisted in His Majesty’s Army. Now, though, there was a sense of friendship in the air. Men who had before then not even spoken two words together now sat upon the ground, eating wild boar and exchanging life stories. Wickham smiled. The wild boar did indeed feel providential. As he looked around him, he saw common soldiers sat with their officers. Things were different here, he mused. There was no need for the airs and graces of home. This was real life. Battle lie ahead, and most likely one of these men was the only thing that would stand between him and the enemy in the coming weeks.

  Wickham shifted himself over to his right, where a group of men under his command sat. “Mind if I join you?” As one man they looked up at him, grinned, and made him welcome. One man passed him a water skein. He gratefully took it and thanked the soldier. “This boar is really very good.”

  “That it is, sir,” one soldier commented, with his mouth full. “I ain’t never tasted nuffink so tasty in me life!”

  Wickham laughed and admitted that under the circumstances, the man was absolutely right.

  All too soon, it was time to pack up. Reluctantly, Wickham rose from the ground. He had chatted quite amiably with the men and had discovered things about them that he could never hope to learn in the ordinary course of their work. He was sad to have to move on, but glad of the opportunity to get to know them better. He hoped to build upon that at the base camp, if he could.

  The men were unwilling to leave the carcass behind them with so much meat remaining on it, and so the two heavy-set men who had turned the pike to roast the beast volunteered to carry it to the base camp. The men cheered when they heard it was coming with them. Many of them had voiced concerns about rations at the camp. Wickham knew well enough that the old saying was true—an army marches on its stomach. A well-fed soldier is a happy soldier who will fight to the best of his ability. A miserable and hungry soldier would most likely grumble, be disinclined to fight, and more than likely, they would have a few deserters. A man’s stomach was a powerful persuader.

  On they all trekked along the forest path, and the undergrowth seemed to become thicker and thicker as they marched. Soon it was necessary to start hacking at the bracken and bushes to clear their way.

  “This is ridiculous!” Captain Brook barked. “Where are our scouts? Do any remain?” One was still amongst them and had not advanced with the others. “Scout out to the left and the right. See if there is a clearer path through this infernal forest. We need to get to the rendezvous point before it gets too dark to march.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man ran off and disappe
ared out of sight.

  Wickham wondered how they had lost the path they were following, but indeed they had, and now it seemed they could not progress without a great deal of work and delay.

  A call went out to their left and they all instinctively reached for their rifles and muskets. Thankfully, it was the scout returning and signalling that he had discovered the path through. Somehow, they had drifted to the right little by little until they became stuck. Breathing a sigh of relief, as one company, they all headed over to where the scout indicated.

  “You need to keep ahead of us, man,” Captain Brook commanded. “In this moonlight, we’ll most likely lose the path again. I’ll not take any chances or any more detours this night.”

  The scout nodded and rushed ahead. He stayed just far enough ahead of the company to be visible to guide them through the dense forest. Wickham looked around him. The men were starting to become irritable and were grumbling again. It does not take much, does it? He shook his head. The sooner they reached the camping ground, the better. They needed to get out of their hot uniforms and rest their weary and aching bones. They had spent the majority of the day marching, unaccustomed to such an arduous day. No matter how much drilling and how much practice they put in back in Scarborough Castle, it was nothing compared to what they endured this day. Even Wickham himself was feeling tired and irritable. He wanted to drink enough water to slake his thirst, not to sip slowly from his water skein now and again. He wanted to get out of his uniform, wash and lie down, and sleep right through the night until the smell of breakfast cooking in the camp awoke him. He knew that was not going to happen—as soon as they arrived at the camping ground, there would be work to do, things to organise, and possibly tents to erect. There were still many hours of hard work ahead of them all. It would be a long night, he was certain. He took a deep breath, lifted up his head and found the retreating back of the scout ahead, and lengthened his stride.

  Lydia returned to her room once the doctor finished his ministrations in the nursery. She disliked the man, and disliked even more the manner in which he spoke to her, as though her son’s illness was all owing to her lack of good parenting. “It’s not my fault!” she cried into her pillow once again. She balled her hands into fists and slammed them into the bed in frustration. “What am I to do?” she called out.

  The doctor’s parting words were that they should prepare themselves for the worst. The babe had fought well, but the fever had remained for four days and three nights thus far. If the fever remained by the morning, then the doctor intimated there was little hope for young Georgie.

  “What on earth shall I do?” Lydia sat up and shuffled to the edge of the bed. “What will I say to Wickham?” The thought of informing her husband of their only child’s demise filled her with more fear than his imminent death did. She slipped off the bed and dashed from the room, up the stairs to the nursery. Hill was asleep in the chair by the crib when Lydia entered. She crept towards the crib and watched her son fitfully sleeping, drenched in perspiration. Lydia frowned. She was filled with anger at the sight of him. She reached down and gripped the wooden sides of the crib, angry thoughts running unbidden through her mind. How dare you be ill! How dare you die! How could you do this to your poor mother? It is not fair!

  Lydia jumped as the chair beside her creaked and Hill awoke. “Don’t you be fretting now, Mrs Wickham.” She smiled and rose from the chair, her old bones cracking as she did so. “I’m here, and I promise I’ll do all I can to keep him safe and with us, if you catch my meaning.”

  Lydia nodded as tears welled up in her eyes. Why is life so difficult and complicated?

  Hill reached out and patted her on the arm. “There, there, my dear.” Lydia sniffed back the tears and wiped her face with the back of her hand. “You’ll exhaust yourself if you stay up here all the time upsetting yourself, and what with you just recovering from the grippe yourself and all,” Hill admonished her. “Why don’t you go downstairs and sit with your mother, Mrs Bennet, in the drawing room for a while? I am certain your father would like to see you, too. He’s usually in there at this time of the day, reading the evening paper. I’ll send for some tea and crumpets for you, if you like.” Lydia smiled at the thought and Hill nodded delightedly. “There, now. That’s the way. You head on downstairs and I’ll be off to the kitchens. I could do with a trifle to eat, myself.” Lydia stole a quick look down at her son. “Master Georgie will be fine for a moment or two. I can send the chambermaid up to sit with him for a few minutes—she’ll be glad of the chance to sit down and take the weight off her feet, I’m sure.”

  For a moment, Lydia had forgotten about her aunt and uncle Gardiner staying with her parents, too. When she entered the drawing room, her aunt beamed at her from the settee. “Ah, Lydia, I am glad you decided to join us.”

  “Well!” Mrs Bennet huffed. “I heard the doctor leave some time ago. I would have thought you would have felt it incumbent upon you to inform us of all he said sooner, child.” She folded her arms across her ample bosom and looked to her husband, who sat by the fireside in conversation with Uncle Gardiner, for support—she found none.

  “Mayhap Lydia needed some time to collect her thoughts and emotions,” Aunt Gardiner ventured. She smiled once again at her. “Isn’t that so, Lydia, dear?”

  Again, Lydia felt a fresh wave of gratitude and respect for her aunt come over her. “Yes, Aunt, you are correct.”

  Mrs Bennet huffed again. “Hmm…and what about your mother’s emotions and thoughts, I dare ask?” No one replied. Each of them found something fascinating in the rug, or on the end of their fingertips. Lydia took the opportunity to make her way across the room and join her aunt on the settee. “Well, if that’s the way it is, I suppose I ought to ring for tea.”

  “Hill has already gone down the kitchens to send for tea, Mama.”

  “Has she indeed?” Mrs Bennet looked vexed.

  “And she wondered whether we would all like some crumpets. I said we would. Is that all right with you, Mama?”

  Mrs Bennet sucked in the sides of her cheeks and clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I suppose it will have to be. It seems I am not to be consulted as the mistress of this house, I see.”

  “Oh, sister, it was not like that, to be sure.”

  “Really?” Mrs Bennet looked at her brother in such a way as to challenge him to dare contradict her. He merely made a few grunting noises and returned gratefully to the conversation he was previously having with Mr Bennet on that year’s increasing price of wheat.

  There was an awkward silence between the women until the tea things arrived. Nothing Lydia said was received well by her mother, and any new topic of conversation Aunt Gardiner tried to introduce was cut short by Mrs Bennet’s increasingly bad mood. Lydia began to wish she had not left the nursery when Hill arrived with the tray of hot buttered crumpets. At the tantalising scent of them, Lydia’s stomach growled. She had not realised she was so hungry, as she barely ate a thing at dinner. The tea and crumpets also tempered Mrs Bennet’s mood, Lydia was glad to notice.

  The conversation turned to much pleasanter matters as they ate, such as London fashions and what the Prince Regent was getting up to that week. Lydia always found his shenanigans entertaining; her elders in the room, however, did not, and disapproved greatly of the ailing king’s heir apparent. With the hot crumpets filling her stomach and the tea warming her through, Lydia knew she ought to return to the nursery to keep vigil over Georgie. She dusted off her skirts and began to rise.

  “Will you not stay with us this evening, Lydia?” Aunt Gardiner asked.

  “I…well, I ought to tend to Georgie.”

  “Tish!” Mrs Bennet exclaimed. “We all know very well the proper person to attend to a sick child is a servant. Hill will do very well on her own, you mark my words.” She nodded and considered the subject finished.

  “But still, Mama, I ought to return for a moment or two at the very least.”

  Mrs Bennet thr
ew her hands in the air. “Whatever is this world coming to? No mother is ever needed to nurse a sick child, Lydia. Do stop being so overdramatic. You had better stay here with us where we can lift your spirits. Kitty and Mary will be back from Meryton shortly, too. They will wish to see you…and you can make a four for cards. Lord knows Mary will either only play the piano all evening or read one of her infernal books unless we need her for cards, so you can join your aunt, Kitty, and me at a few hands of whist.”

  Lydia admitted to herself that she would dearly love to spend more time with her closest sister, Kitty. She felt torn. Something within her demanded that she return to her son’s side. However, she wanted to see Kitty and hear all the gossip from Meryton. The desire to spend time with her sister and to immerse herself in the goings-on of the town won her over and she sat back down again. “Very well, Mama. I shall do as you bid.”

  Kitty and Mary’s arrival home from Meryton was audible long before either of the girls appeared in the drawing room. Kitty burst in first, and without curtseying or greeting any of the family seated within, she declared, “Oh, we have such news!” She beamed at Lydia and turned to her mother. “Do you remember the admiral’s son, Edmund Fairbrother, who was courting Maria Lucas, Mama?”

  Mrs Bennet nodded. “Oh, yes, a perfect gentleman, if I do say so myself. Such manners, such affability—”

  Kitty cut across her to continue her discourse. “Well, he proposed! They are to be married by St. Michaelmas day!” She jumped up and down and clapped her hands with joy.

  “I am not quite so elated by the news, Mama. This admiral’s son is to remove Maria to Portsmouth to live after they are wed,” Mary joined.

  “Portsmouth? Why Portsmouth, of all places?” Mrs Bennet squealed.

  Kitty turned with frustration to her sister. “Because that is where his family live, silly. That is where they have a house, and besides, we will then have an excuse to travel to the coast and visit with her.”