Wickham

by Karen Aminadra

  Lydia was not so quick to regain hers. She rushed into her room and splashed her face with cold water. She gazed at her reflection in the looking glass and gasped. Her face was flushed from the encounter. She knew if she returned to the drawing room now, her glowing appearance would draw more than one comment from her family—and, most likely, many conclusions. She dried off her face with the cloth by the side of the pitcher and sat down on the stool at the dressing table, staring at her reflection. What on earth am I doing? She bit her bottom lip as she thought of Sir Percival’s lithe body and strong arms. Again, she did not care a jot about what she was doing. She wanted him with such intensity it scared her. She had never wanted anything or anyone so much in her entire life.

  Wickham sat beside the fire with a blanket around his shoulders, sipping hot fresh coffee. “H…how did you get there?” he stammered to Colonel Sullivan, who sat opposite him, drinking coffee from his own mug.

  “One of our scouts saw two Frenchmen running through the forest from the direction of the villages. They halted as our men looked on, and then doubled back. Our scout was here in a flash, and we knew you needed our help.”

  Wickham looked up with deep gratitude in his eyes and nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I am just sorry we were not in time to save poor Turpin.”

  “So am I, sir, so am I,” Wickham croaked through the lump in his throat. He was vaguely aware that Poynter was seated to his right, in a far worse state than he was. Colonel Sullivan reached inside his coat and produced a hip flask. He unscrewed the cap and, getting up, poured a drop into Poynter’s mug, and then into Wickham’s. “Here, this ought to help.”

  Wickham took a mouthful and almost choked. “That’s strong,” he coughed.

  Colonel Sullivan smiled. “Good old Irish whiskey.”

  Wickham raised his mug in salute and drank again. This time he was ready for it and welcomed the warmth as it burned its way down his throat and into his stomach. He was relieved to note the life beginning to return to his numb body. What he witnessed in that field was gruesome and would stay with him for the remainder of his life, he was sure. He wanted to voice a thought that turned around in his mind, but was hesitant to ask in front of Poynter, who was so clearly and deeply affected. After a long wait, he was surprised to hear the very same thought come out of Poynter’s mouth.

  “What will happen to Tommy’s body?” His voice was small and barely above a whisper.

  Colonel Sullivan gave him a look of such pity that it brought a lump to Wickham’s throat.

  “We can have him sent back to England, or bury him here. What do you think, Lieutenant?”

  Wickham was pleasantly surprised. He had never been in such a situation before, thank the Lord, and he was astounded to see how the colonel, who most often took the hard line, was now so compassionate it almost made him feel worse.

  “Home,” was all Poynter could say. Wickham watched as his words stuck in his throat.

  “Very well.” Sullivan nodded. “We will have him sent home to England for burial.”

  Poynter buried his face in his hands and wept silently.

  “We appreciate that, sir.”

  “Think nothing of it, Wickham. I would like to ask one large favour of you both, though.” Colonel Sullivan looked reluctant to ask.

  “Go ahead, sir,” Wickham prompted.

  “Would you both like to pen a letter to Lieutenant Turpin’s parents? I believe they would appreciate it more from those who knew him best, rather than from me.”

  Poynter made a strangled noise and wiped his face on the back of his hand. “Y…yes,” he stammered, “we will do that for Tommy.”

  Wickham nodded. “Let us have the paper, and we will have the letter ready by the morning, sir.”

  “Good, but there’s no hurry, men.” Sullivan looked at Poynter with concern. “It can wait until morning.”

  Poynter rose. “No, I want to do it now. I want to tell his mother what an asset her son was.”

  “Very well.” Colonel Sullivan rose, too. “I will have a man bring you paper and ink right away.” He turned and left them both staring after him.

  “What will you say in the letter?” Wickham asked.

  “I do not know. He was my best friend; he had been for years.”

  Wickham stood and clapped his friend on the back and nodded as they both continued to stare in the direction Colonel Sullivan had gone. “That’s a good start,” he murmured, swallowing the tightness in his throat away. “That’s a very good start.”

  Wickham lay awake for most of the night. Beside him on the little foldaway table lay the letter he wrote to Tommy Turpin’s parents back in England. At first, he had not known what to say, but once he put pen to paper, his thoughts began to flow through the ink. It surprised him to see that he used up four sheets of paper telling the Turpins what a wonderful son, soldier, and friend Tommy was, and how much he would be missed. Wickham wept unashamedly when the missive was finally finished, and he signed his name after a few heartfelt words of encouragement to the family. The only people he had ever known to die were his own father and old Mr Darcy. They were different—they were old men. Tommy Turpin had his whole life ahead of him, and he was so brutally killed.

  Mentally, Wickham kicked himself for not ordering the soldiers to sweep the surrounding area for any French soldiers who had fled the village when they opened fire. After speaking to Colonel Sullivan, Wickham discovered there were merely two who had escaped. Two soldiers, and one shot. That was all it took to extinguish Tommy Turpin’s life. Bile rose up in his throat and he thought he would vomit. He turned over on his side and closed his eyes. Images of Poynter lying across Turpin’s lifeless and bloody body came to mind.

  He thought he would not sleep at all that night and was awoken with a start when the bugle call came at sunrise. He rose groggily, dressed, and traipsed across the camp to Colonel Sullivan’s tent, and without a word, handed him the letter. There was no need to say anything. Nothing he could have said would have made the slightest difference. He turned around once the colonel had the letter and headed straight for his tent. He did not wish to join his men for breakfast; neither did he wish to speak to anyone. He longed for peace. He longed to be back home. However, before he reached his tent, Poynter caught up with him as he emerged from his tent. “You look how I feel,” he quipped.

  “Trust me, you look it, too.”

  Wickham grimaced and looked down at the letter in Poynter’s hands. “Did you sleep?”

  “A little.”

  “Good, that’s better than not at all.”

  Poynter nodded. “Listen, I need to take this…” He waved the letter in the air. Wickham nodded. “I’ll be back in a minute or two. Get some coffee, will you?” He walked off towards Colonel Sullivan, and Wickham solemnly went in search of hot coffee.

  One of their men, God bless his soul, had prepared coffee and commandeered some more eggs from Estelle’s village. Wickham felt his throat tighten at the gesture.

  “I thought you might appreciate it, sir. It ain’t nice what ’appened yesterday, and me and the men, well…we’re sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you.” Wickham nodded; his voice full of emotion. “I appreciate it, and I am certain Lieutenant Poynter will, too.” He reached out to take the plates from the soldier.

  “No, sir, you go and sit yourself down. I’ll bring it all over.”

  Mindlessly and numb, Wickham did as the man bade. Poynter stood open-mouthed at the sight before him when he arrived back.

  So it is true, there is a camaraderie amongst soldiers; a band of strangers closer than brothers. Wickham had always scoffed at the talk of such kindness and brotherly affection between soldiers, and yet, here he and Poynter sat, the objects of such affection themselves.

  They ate the scrambled eggs and drank the coffee in silence and through emotion-choked throats. There were no words to convey how either of them felt. The looks from the men, who were seasoned veterans, showed
that they knew only too well how they felt. The sentiment touched Wickham deeply.

  He laid his empty plate on the grass at his feet. “It all makes you wonder if it is worth it.”

  “Hmm…”

  “I mean, why are we fighting this war? Is Boney such a threat?”

  Poynter snorted. “Yes, the man’s a bloody tyrant.” Slowly, Wickham nodded and conceded that was true. “But it does make you wonder if we’re doing anything worthwhile with our lives.”

  Wickham looked at him. “What do you mean?”

  “Tommy was cut off in his prime. Me… I have no wife, no family, nothing. You have a son and a wife, yes, but…well, we all know how that is.”

  He sat back in the chair and swore under his breath.

  “You only have one life, and by God, it is short.” There seemed to be a new light in Poynter’s eyes as Wickham stared at him. “I intend to take the bull by the horns, George. I will no longer waste money on gambling. I am going to set up in business when I get back—who cares what business, I do not, but it will be one that makes a penny or two. I intend to marry and have a brood of children.” Poynter looked him in the eye, and Wickham could see how sincere he was. “I will travel, mayhap to the Americas. It would be good to see them, even if they are not ours anymore; well, the north colonies are, still. My buxom wife will travel with me and…and she will laugh.” He swallowed hard, and Wickham could see his eyes were brimmed with tears. “And we will squeeze every last drop out of life and not waste a moment.”

  “Noble sentiments, indeed.” Wickham regretted the statement the second it was out of his mouth.

  “Hang it all, Wickham! I’m serious!” Poynter shouted at him. “All this…” He waved his hand at the camp at large. “What is it all for if we go home and piss our lives away on booze and gambling?”

  Wickham stared agog at his friend. He really means it.

  “I mean it. I plan to live every second of life.” His eyes bulged as he spoke, and his voice took on a shrill edge. “Do you not realise that shot could easily have been for you, or for me? That either of us could be lying under that blanket now, awaiting a hastily constructed box and transportation back to Britain?”

  Wickham felt as though Poynter had struck him a blow in the stomach. He was right, and he felt chastened. Wickham had simply wasted his life on feckless living. He wasted almost every chance he was ever given. His mind wandered back through time to that day in Mr Darcy’s private study when he had told him he did not wish to take the living old Mr Darcy had intended for him. After hearing what Poynter had to say, he kicked himself. He may not have ever liked giving sermons, but he would have had a secure life, and may have settled into it in time. He thought about all the dalliances he had over the years, of all the hearts and reputations left in tatters because of his own thoughtless, careless, and self-serving actions. He felt ashamed of himself. He thought, then, of Lydia—would he ever be happy with her? Would she ever be the kind of wife to him that Poynter described as wanting?

  He looked over at Poynter as he sat staring at the grass between his black-booted feet and wished him every happiness. What else was there in life worth attaining?

  Again, his mind turned to Lydia. Is she even remotely happy with me? He snapped out of his reverie as Colonel Sullivan approached. “Men, I need you to go carry on with the barricades.” His face showed concern. “Are you up to it?” Both of them nodded and said they were. “Good, then, set to it.”

  Wickham stared after him as he marched away. In fact, he relished the idea of some hard graft that day. It would either clear his head of its current train of thought, or help him to decide what it was he really wanted out of life. Turpin’s death had deeply shocked the pair of them and Wickham, when faced with his own mortality, knew his life, and how he lived it, was greatly wanting.

  For a second time, Wickham faced a day of hard work. This time, he welcomed it. He was more enthusiastic than before. They had to blockade another bridge so that any enemy forces heading their way had to cross the stream at the ford in the bend of the river. The water was knee-deep there, would slow down wagons and, most likely, the men, too. It would give them a tactical advantage. Wickham put his back into the work. There was no tumbledown mill on this stretch of the river, but he did find a couple of large rocks in the river that helped in building the barricade.

  He stood, stretched out his aching back, and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand when an idea struck him. He snatched up a shovel and headed over the bridge to the far side of the river. He looked about him and, satisfied with his position, thrust the spade into the ground. It was harder than he expected it to be and within seconds, he was drenched with the effort.

  “What are you doin’, sir?” one of his men asked.

  Without looking up, Wickham replied breathlessly, “Digging a trench. If they have to navigate this and the barricade, they will think twice about even attempting to cross here.”

  “Come on, then!” he heard Poynter yell as he, too, snatched up a spade and joined Wickham in digging a trench.

  “Bring those planks to hold back the water at this end,” Wickham called, and pointed to the river.

  The hardness of the earth made for tough work, but little by little, their task was achieved until, stiff and sore, they stood back to admire their handiwork.

  “What is it we’ve done, sir?” one of them asked in a thick Yorkshire accent.

  “We have dug a trench, Private.” Wickham panted. “Let’s help each other over, then we can lift those planks and let the water through. With any luck, the Frenchies will think it is shallow and will break a leg or two falling into that.”

  The men laughed and winced at the thought. “That’s pretty deep, sir. Only a fool would try and cross that.”

  “Precisely! So they will be driven to cross the river at the bend, where we will be waiting for them.” Wickham beamed at his own ingenuity. He felt exhilarated from the hard work and wondered why he had shied away from it for the majority of his life. Nothing had ever made him feel as alive as this day’s work had done. Nothing had ever made him think so clearly, either. He felt like a new man.

  In one undignified scramble, they crossed the trench to the other side and stood laughing at how dirty they all were. Their uniforms now were so caked in soil that it was questionable that they wore uniforms at all. Wickham shrugged; they would bathe in the river before returning—they deserved it.

  He gave the word, the planks were lifted, and the water gushed along the gulley and filled the trench. They stood mesmerised as it filled, and he was pleased to note that it moved slower than the river. “Hopefully, some French dolt will think it is merely a puddle and come a cropper.”

  “Would serve ’em right, an’ all!” one of them said as they laughed.

  Wickham nodded, happy that they had done a good job and that it would hold, and led the way back across the bridge. It was then that he realised they had to finish the barricade. His limbs and joints protested, but his heart did not, and he enthusiastically began to place the branches, rocks, and general flotsam that they collected in a pile on the far side of the bridge. The men, spurred on by Wickham’s enthusiasm, put all their remaining effort into the work, and before long it was finished and, as one man remarked, rather dangerous-looking.

  “I agree.” Poynter laughed. “If any frog is fortunate enough to survive the trench unscathed, there’s plenty in this blockade to pierce them through.”

  “Right, then.” Wickham rubbed his hands together. “The last man in the river has to polish my boots for a week!”

  A jubilant cry went up, and as one man, they jumped headlong into the river. No one saw who the last man in was—they were all too relieved to soothe their hot and aching bodies in the cooling water.

  Wickham slapped the fabric of the tent as he entered and hissed, “Will, wake up!” Poynter lay in a deep sleep upon the cot and did not move at the interruption. Wickham leant over his sleeping friend and sho
ok him. “Wake up.”

  “What?” Poynter exclaimed, a little too loudly for Wickham, who winced.

  “Shh! You’ll wake the entire camp,” he hissed. “Get up, let’s go!”

  “Go?” Poynter asked groggily. “Go where?” He yawned in Wickham’s face.

  “To Vincy.” Poynter’s face showed no recognition of the name. “I said I would go and see Estelle tonight.” Wickham sighed. It was clear his friend was still in the stupor of sleep. “Come on, get up.” He reached behind him, picked up Poynter’s breeches, and tossed them to him. “Get dressed; I’ll meet you outside my tent in five minutes.” As he exited the tent, he heard Poynter groan and curse at him. Wickham cared not. It was Poynter’s idea, anyway, that he should take the bull by the horns and live life to the full and he intended to—and he proposed to begin with informing Estelle Bernard that her brother, Jacques Dubois, was alive and well.

  Poynter looked like he had a storm cloud hanging over his head by the time he joined Wickham. “Are you out of your tiny little mind?”

  Wickham grinned at him, bent over, and crept along out behind the tents. “No, not at all,” he rasped back. “In fact, I think I have finally come to my senses!”

  They crept along in silence until they were clear of the camp and out onto the road. Wickham straightened up with confidence. He felt sure no one had seen them and, seeing as there was no moon visible through the building clouds, that the night was dark enough to obscure them from prying eyes.

  “What in God’s name are we doing out here?” Poynter asked again as they hurried along.

  Wickham tripped on a pebble, but righted himself and chuckled.

  “Are you inebriated?” Poynter shoved his shoulder from behind.

  “No!” Wickham laughed. “I am not. I feel as though I have awoken. I have not felt so alive in a long time.”

  Poynter raised his eyebrows, “Humph.”