Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  The shot rent through the air and the recoil jarred his shoulder, but he did not care. The man was down, and others were moving about. He heard men cry out, women scream, and other gunshots reverberating through the air. He ran forward, and was aware that Poynter and Turpin did, too. Everything happened so quickly that it was all over before he realised what happened. He stood in shock in the middle of the street as the shooting stopped and the dust cleared. He blinked and hardly believed his eyes; his men stood triumphant. He almost laughed with elation.

  “Did any get away?” Poynter bellowed. The answer came back that none had. “Good then, you and you…” He pointed to two soldiers. “…gather the dead men; the villagers can bury them later.”

  Wickham nodded. “The rest of you, search the tavern and the houses. I want all villagers brought here.” His nerves were still tight despite the exhilaration coursing through his veins.

  He looked up and down the street. There were not more than a dozen houses—mostly farmhouses, he surmised, a tavern and a smithy. That may be of use.

  The villagers protested and resisted being hustled out into the street. In all, there were only two dozen of them. They were forced out at gunpoint, eventually, and many of them spat on the ground as they were lined up in front of Wickham, Poynter, and Turpin.

  “Do any one of you speak English?” Wickham asked in a loud voice as they all scowled at him. He looked up and down the line. His heart stopped as he recognised the woman from the stream trying to hide behind the fat tavern keeper.

  He snapped his thoughts back to the task at hand as he heard one of his men shouting, “Do you speakee Eengleesh?”

  The woman from the stream rolled her eyes and Wickham walked up to her. “I assume you do.”

  She frowned at him. “Je ne comprends pas, monsieur.”

  “Really? You do not understand? Then why did you roll your eyes when my soldier shouted, Madame?” She blushed and gave herself away. “I thought so.” The tavern keeper growled at her and raised his hand to strike her. Wickham caught his wrist as she cowered. “Keep your hands off the lady. Do you hear me?”

  The man clearly did not understand him. Wickham gestured with his head that the woman should translate.

  “Il a dit—” She barely began when the man barked out something evidently abusive to the woman, and she cowered from him again.

  Poynter punched the man on the chin and he fell backwards onto the ground; knocked out cold. His wrist was wrenched from Wickham’s grip as he did so.

  He rubbed his wrist with his left hand. “You could let me know next time you decide to punch someone whom I am holding onto.” He smirked.

  “Yes, well, sorry about that.” Poynter laughed.

  Wickham walked along the line of peasants. “I want your names. Turpin here will write them down.” He pointed to Turpin and the woman translated as each villager said—or, rather, spat out—their names.

  Their hostility was obvious and, Wickham thought, understandable. However, he also knew he had no other choice but to instil a sense of discipline, or they would rebel. Suddenly, the whole idea of taking the village seemed senseless. He walked over to Poynter, who stood a few feet away from the end of the line looking up and down the street. “This is imprudent.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We now have to waste resources on keeping these villagers in line. We ought to have kept sentries stationed along the road to pick off anyone who came near to knowing where the camp is.”

  “Maybe.” Poynter pulled a face. “If we had left them alone, we would always run the risk that we would be discovered.”

  “Well, now it’s blatantly obvious that we are in the area.” Wickham looked back towards the line and caught the beautiful woman’s name as she called it out: Estelle Bernard. His heart jumped to his throat. My God, she is beautiful.

  “How many of our men do you propose we leave here?”

  “Hmm?” Wickham snapped his head round to face his friend.

  “Keep up, Wickham.” He shook his head. Wickham was certain he had observed him looking at Estelle. “I said, how many of our men do you propose we leave here?”

  “They had five. I suggest we station six, and then they can stay in twos.”

  “Better eight.”

  “Are you serious? That would leave us with a guard of two as we head back to the camp.” Wickham opened his eyes wide in astonishment.

  “We will be fine. We shot the Frenchies.”

  “Hmm… I do not like it, but it would be better to leave eight men to patrol in pairs. On that point, you are correct.” He did not like the thought of walking back to the camp with only two guards, and hoped Poynter was right.

  “Look on the bright side, though, Wickham.” He grinned with his tongue in his cheek. “You’ve found your Estelle Bernard.”

  Wickham laughed. Yes, he had found Estelle. “But judging from the look on her face, she hates me and would not speak to me if I were the last man on earth.”

  “What do you care about that? Just give her the letter and be done with it, man.”

  “Yes,” Wickham replied, but he knew he would not be happy with that alone. He wanted to get to know her and to run his fingers through her long black hair. He was stunned at the train his thoughts took and shook his head to clear it. What was he thinking? He had to focus on the task at hand.

  He strode off in the direction of his men and barked orders at them more harshly than he intended. None of them were impressed, or pleased, with the thought they were to remain stationed in the village. “We came to fight the frogs, not babysit them!” they protested.

  “Those are my orders. We will send others to relieve you, no doubt, in a few days. For now, sit tight and make certain that no one goes running off to tell ole Boney’s army where we are.” He turned on his heel and headed back towards the line of villagers as his men paired up and began to patrol.

  After all their names and occupations were taken, Turpin placed the list in his inside pocket and Wickham addressed the villagers. “I know you are all scared.” He turned to Estelle and waited for her to translate. “But please, let me reassure you that we are not here to harm you in any way. We are here to protect you.”

  The villagers burst out shouting and yelling at him after Estelle translated his words.

  “That went well,” Turpin quipped. “Now what?” He looked at Wickham.

  Wickham turned and looked up at the building next to which they stood. It was a tavern. “Now we have a drink.” He looked down the list of names. The tavern owner, the man whom Poynter struck, he read, was called Thibault Bernard. He had recently come to and was being helped to his feet by a small girl. Wickham assumed she was the couple’s daughter, Hélène. “Are you the owner?” he asked, pointing at the tavern.

  The man stared at Wickham and grunted.

  “He cannot speak English.”

  Wickham turned and came face-to-face with Estelle. He could hardly breathe, let alone speak to her.

  “I assume you want a drink, monsieur?” She cocked an eyebrow.

  “Yes.” Wickham coughed to clear his throat. “I think that would be a good idea. We have French francs.”

  She nodded and led the way into the building. Turpin and Poynter followed him in, and the villagers trailed dumbly after them.

  Wickham sat down on a stool in front of the bar, with Poynter and Turpin on either side of him, and watched Estelle select a bottle from the shelf behind it. “Pour a little something for them, will you?” He pointed at the villagers. “They look like they are in shock.”

  Estelle stared at him. “So would you be if you had just witnessed your fellow countrymen slaughtered, in front of you, by the enemy.”

  He was awed by her perfect English, but was less than impressed by what she said. “They were enemy soldiers. This is war.”

  “Non, monsieur. You are the enemy soldiers. They were Frenchmen.” She pulled the cork out of the bottle, whilst staring angrily at him, and poure
d out small glasses of what appeared to be some kind of claret wine.

  She pushed one glass across the counter towards him, but he shook his head and said, “Them first.” This made her raise her eyebrows. He knew she would never have expected courteous behaviour from an enemy. Once all the villagers had their tiny glasses, Wickham raised his to the room at large. “Cheers!”

  There was no response.

  Estelle picked up her glass and raised it high. “Salut!” The villagers responded to her, but still drank cautiously from their glasses.

  Wickham, however, downed his in one mouthful. “Thank you,” he said to Estelle. Her face softened slightly.

  “What do you want with us?” she asked as the atmosphere lifted slightly and the villagers started talking amongst themselves.

  “Nothing.”

  She raised her eyebrows again, and Wickham noted how much he liked it when she did that. “Honestly, nothing? Then why did you shoot those men?”

  Poynter and Turpin observed him in silence, and he knew they were enjoying his repartee with the woman. “You know the reason for that, Madame Bernard.” She said nothing, but confidently held his gaze. “They were soldiers.” She did not deny the fact. Wickham pushed his glass across to her to refill. “What were they doing here?”

  Estelle shrugged and busied herself with refilling his glass, then replacing the cork in the top of the bottle and placing the almost-empty bottle back onto the shelf behind her. “I cannot say,” she whispered.

  “Cannot, or will not?” Wickham’s gaze was hard and intense, and she reddened slightly under his scrutiny.

  “Cannot,” she replied, even quieter, and moved along the bar to greet her husband as he approached.

  Wickham tried not to watch. What would a beautiful woman like her be doing married to an overweight, violent oaf like that, he wondered. The man—Thibault Bernard—waddled towards him and put his hand out. Estelle, clearly embarrassed at his behaviour, followed him. “He wants to be paid for the wine.”

  Wickham nodded and pulled out his money pouch. Monsieur Bernard barked out something in French that Wickham assumed was the price of the wine. He dug his hand into the pouch and pulled out a handful of French coins that he displayed to Estelle. Carefully, she chose three differently shaped coins. “How much is that in pounds, shillings, and English money?” he quipped.

  Estelle smiled and shrugged. “I do not know, monsieur.”

  “Merçi.” He smiled mirthlessly at Monsieur Bernard and swung around on the stool, slipped off it, and headed to the door, deliberately leaving his shako hat on the bar behind him. Poynter and Turpin followed.

  “Do you think she will talk to you, or be useful?” Turpin asked as the wooden door banged shut behind them.

  “We will see, but I most definitely hope so,” he replied. “Let us get the men out of the bar and organised.”

  Turpin re-entered the tavern and ordered the men out. One by one, their men came traipsing out of the bar, grumbling that they only had a mere thimbleful of wine. Wickham was glad they did not have money on them, or they would most likely be drunk instead of attending to their duties. He stood back and allowed Poynter to brief the men on what they had to do.

  By the time he had finished and the men were dispatched, Estelle Bernard appeared at the door to the tavern with Wickham’s hat in her hands. Poynter coughed and nodded his head towards her. He and Turpin walked discreetly away from them and out of earshot, leaving Wickham to speak alone with Estelle.

  “Monsieur, you left your hat inside.” She looked embarrassed.

  “Thank you.” Wickham reached out and gently took it from her. “It was very kind of you to bring it out to me. I appreciate that.”

  Estelle did not raise her eyes to look at him. “You are welcome, monsieur.”

  “Listen.” Wickham lowered his voice. “Will you be all right?” He nodded towards the tavern. “With him, I mean.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes almost as wide as saucers. “Why would you care?”

  “Because…” Wickham wanted to mention her brother and all that he knew of her, but felt it was too early. She would be suspicious. Heck, she is suspicious of me now, as it is. He sighed. “Just promise me that you will be all right.” She did not reply, but continued to stare at him. “We will be back in a few days. Mayhap I can look in on you.”

  “Non, monsieur.” She looked scared. “That would not be appropriate.”

  Wickham sucked his teeth and looked about for inspiration. His eyes alighted on the barn. “Meet me in the barn in two days’ time. I will come late at night, and I will come alone.”

  “What do you mean by it?” She looked taken aback by his proposal.

  “Just promise me,” he pressed. Instantly, he saw her shock begin to change to indignation, and he knew he ought to say something before all hope of meeting with her—telling her the whereabouts of her brother and giving her the letter—were gone. “Please…do it for Jacques.” He gazed meaningfully into her eyes and then turned and walked away.

  “Jacques.” He heard her repeat softly. “You know my brother, monsieur?” Wickham smiled to himself as he joined Poynter and Turpin, and they began their walk back to the camp with the one of the regulars in front and the other following behind.

  “Well? Did you tell her about her brother?” Poynter asked him as soon as they were clear of the village.

  “I mentioned his name.”

  Poynter chuckled. “And?”

  “And I think she will meet me in two days, in the barn.” He grinned widely.

  “We’ll come with you,” Turpin said, looking grave. “I do not trust them.”

  “Ho! No, we won’t!” Poynter laughed aloud. “You saw the looks she was throwing at him in the tavern. Oh, no, Tommy. This is one rendez-vous that monsieur…” He mocked Estelle’s accent and wiggled his hips. “…must handle all by himself, if you know what I mean.” They all laughed heartily.

  “Oh,” Tommy replied. “I did not realise…” Wickham clapped him on the back, laughing.

  As they continued, their conversation dried up and they continued in silence. Then, as the path rounded a corner, they decided to cut the entire corner out by trudging across a field. Wickham wished they had not by the time they were halfway across. It was marshy land, and that explained why neither any animal grazed there, nor were there any crops growing. His boots became caked in mud and his breeches were sodden through to his skin.

  The crack of a single musket rifle shot rang out through the air. The next sound Wickham heard was Poynter, from behind him, hollering, “Get down!”

  For what seemed like hours, they lay on the damp, muddy grass, keeping as still as they could. Wickham pressed his nose hard against the wet dirt under his face. He could hear the sound of movement around him, and knew the two regulars were moving out to hunt down the attacker. Still, they refused to move. Fear spread through Wickham’s body as he had never known before. Are we surrounded? Is the man who shot the rifle alone, or is the French army closer than we thought? Did a French soldier escape from the village to fetch reinforcements?

  After what seemed like an eternity, Wickham heard shuffling to his left, and the whimpering voice of Poynter. “Oh my God, please, God, no!”

  Suddenly, Wickham heard the voice of Colonel Sullivan barking orders with his voice lowered, and disbelieved his ears. “Stay where you are, man. Don’t you dare move, or speak again.” He whispered even quieter, “If you give our position away, I will personally shoot you where you lie.”

  When did they get here?

  Wickham felt the fear grip him even stronger. It was clear to him that one of the three of them was shot. He could not hear Turpin. The only sounds he could hear were those of Poynter snivelling. He feared he was shot. Something grave had to have caused him to cry out like that. He knew, as the fear paralysed him, that he could not have moved to help his friend even if he wanted to.

  Time stretched on and he could hear the sound of musket fire
as he lay immobile on the ground. Eventually, a cry went up and the two regulars came back, rejoicing. Their return declared that it was safe to rise from the ground, and they had found and shot the rifleman. Wickham breathed a deep sigh of relief and felt his body relax. Slowly, he moved into a kneeling position and looked to Poynter, on his left. The man was laid across another body and was sobbing bitterly. Wickham shuffled on all fours over to his wounded friend. His breath caught in his throat, and he thought his heart would stop altogether. The attacker had taken one shot with his rifle. Clearly, it was well-aimed, and he had chosen his target well. The shot had hit Turpin between the eyes, killing him instantly.

  Wickham’s stomach clenched and he quickly darted back to the right as he retched and divulged the contents of his stomach. His mind was numb and blank. This could not be happening. This was impossible.

  Once his stomach had emptied its contents, he slowly turned back to where Poynter lay grieving atop the dead body. Wickham heard someone shouting, “No!” and realised it was him. He fell to his knees, shuffled closer, and took his friend’s face in his hands. He slapped him about the cheeks. “Wake up!” he cried. “Damn it!”

  Behind him, Wickham heard footfalls. He heard whoever it was kneel down between himself and Poynter and lay a hand on both of them. Then they heard Colonel Sullivan’s voice again. “Come, now. There is nothing you can do. He has gone.” The breath stuck in Wickham’s throat. He would not allow him to be gone. “Come on, men, let the lads take him back to camp.” Colonel Sullivan rose and Wickham heard him walk off, telling the men to pick up the dead body to be carried back to the camp. Wickham suddenly realised there were many regulars with Colonel Sullivan. Again, he wondered when they had arrived. He reached over, grabbed Poynter by the back of his coat, and lifted him off their friend. The look of horror and grief on his friend’s face tore at his heart, and he too began to cry.