Absolute Honour

by C. C. Humphreys

  When the regiment reached its destination, the town of Castelo de Vide – near the Spanish border – in the early evening of the next day, Jack set out immediately. There’d been no occasion to hunt on the forced march, so relentlessly did they travel. But tiredness, compounded with the lateness of the hour, turned up no deer, though skulls and antlers displayed on the walls of taverns indicated that deer were to be found. Or had been, at least, though God only knew where the drought might have driven them.

  The rising sun had not yet crested the hills above the town when he climbed into them the next day. As Até had taught him, he travelled light: a rope-wrapped bottle of water mixed with wine; the half-loaf of bread Worsley had miraculously scrounged; a length of rope, all carried in his satchel; a large knife on his belt that he’d taken off the Maltese sailor in Valetta to prevent the man sticking it into him; the rifle and the pouch, which contained just six cartridges of paper, gunpowder and ball. He’d only need one, though. If he missed he’d not get a second shot.

  The cork trees soon merged into aspen, and there were signs here of deer, some pellets, crumbled to disgorge the tree’s small black seeds, that could not have been upon the ground for very long. There was also the thinnest of creeks still running, concealed under brush. It was barely deep enough to wet his feet. But deer in Portugal would, he felt sure, be little different from their American equivalent. They would seek shelter, food and water. In this arid land, this tiny creek was perhaps one of their few sources.

  As he traced the trickle higher up, he thought about how the day might end – a Queen’s birthday feast consisting of beans and a few pieces of stringy chicken. The only man who would be pleased with the fare would be Stokey, for he would have the lieutenancy and, as he had not failed to remind Jack, command over him.

  ‘We’ll see if we cannot make you into a soldier again, Absolute. You are slack, sir. Devilishly slack. Can’t have the Cornet of my troop let me down,’ he’d said, when Jack had returned empty-handed the previous night.

  A rabbit ran across his path but there was no point even reaching for the gun. The wager had been clarified by a quorum of officers as requiring enough meat to feed the entire mess with flesh, not the flavouring for a soup! Still, the sign of even so much life was better than none at all. With that little hope he pressed on, to an area he’d scouted the day before that contained other features a deer might like.

  He took the last few hundred yards most carefully, rifle loaded and at port, eyes seeking between the trunks. But nothing moved as he came up to a thicker stand that concealed what he’d noticed the day before – a slight flattening of the land, the barest pooling of water. Before the drought this was undoubtedly a pond some four foot across. Jack bent to look. Yesterday there had been a congregation of hoof prints on the pool’s western edge. He had used a branch to obliterate all trace, creating a smooth surface to the dust. And, today, right in the middle of the swept area was the unmistakeable sight of a new hoofprint.

  Jack rose, scanned the area. The slope rose up steeply from this point, increasingly tree-less, climbing toward the high bluffs above. It was the sort of land deer loved – a north-facing slope to shelter from the worst of the sun’s heat; pockets of brush for concealment; good views over all approaches; and, above all, good escape routes. Even through the trees Jack could see trails through the shrub, disappearing up over the granite cliffs.

  He stepped over the puddle and climbed a little way up the slope. A crag of rock gave him a natural wall to shelter behind and slashed branches, from the pines that now predominated, provided a roof. For the moment he was downwind of the pool. Jack took a sip of water, checked that powder was still in the pan and lay down.

  The scent of pine sap from the cut branches, the steady drone of flying insects, the call of cicadas and the heat all conspired to take Jack back to his time in Canada, in 1760, when he and Até had acted as scouts for Murray’s army, as it chased the French from Quebec back to Montreal. They had supplemented their meagre allowance with money paid for game supplied for the camp cook’s pot, competing as they always did in everything, to bring in the most. Até had had a clear advantage in the beginning, his forest skills honed by virtue of hunting from the moment he could stand. He had taken three to Jack’s one in the first month. However, Jack was – disputedly, of course – the better shot, and his own tracking skills developed in observation of his companion; Até gave no lessons but by the end of that campaign, Jack was level in kills.

  ‘Até,’ he whispered, missing him suddenly. He would have enjoyed this whole situation, hunting and war and wagers. He’d also have relished the chance to mock Jack for the choices that had brought him here, via Bath and Rome. Where was his Mohawk blood brother now? Probably at the school he’d told Jack he was hoping to be sent to, somewhere in Connecticut. It made Jack chuckle to think of Até in a shirt and collar, diligent over his grammar, passionate about his verse. If he was still there then they had shared another experience – a winter in prison. Yet Jack had no doubt that Até would stay the course. If he set his mind to something, he would see it through, his desire for knowledge outweighing his longing for freedom.

  Jack smiled. Perhaps he had started that, when they’d spent that whole winter in a cave, covered in bear grease, using Jack’s battered copy of Hamlet to teach Até English and Jack Iroquois; and it had turned Até into a fanatic! He quoted it ad nauseam and in any situation, much to Jack’s annoyance. But the Dane had saved their lives, he supposed. Without the copy his mother had given him before he went on campaign, what would they have done the winter long,trapped by snow? Killed each other, he supposed. Instead they’d become brothers and quarrelled like any siblings. The debates they’d had! Até saw the play as a story of redemption while, for Jack, it was a tale of vengeance …

  A rabbit scurried down to the water and Jack carefully raised the rifle, sighted on its head. He had fired several shots on the march, knew that the gun threw fractionally left. There was barely a wind so, at this range of some fifty paces, it would not need to be compensated for.

  ‘Phew.’ He blew his lips out in explosion. The rabbit hopped away, disappearing into shrub. Vengeance, Jack thought. What had Hamlet said? He stared up at the sheltering trees. Something about ‘greatly finding quarrel with straws, when Honour’s at the stake. How stand I then …’ Jack lowered the rifle, draped the cloth he’d soaked over the barrel, a cool barrel shooting more truly, and sighed. He had no ‘father slain’ but Sir James had been compromised when he’d tried to match-make for Jack. And his own honour was at the stake, from the moment the Irishman cozened him, tried to link him to …

  Jack shook his head. He had tried to hate Laetitia. But he’d had plenty of time to think on the affair, in Rome and since; its hectic, almost farcical beginning, its tragic end. The story belonged upon a stage, not in anyone’s life! Yet finally, he had realized that she, as much as he, had been the pawn to another man’s ambitions. It was not Letty Fitzpatrick who had dishonoured him but her cousin, Red Hugh McClune. The man had been his friend, they had caroused together, fought at each other’s side, each saved the other’s life. It was what made the betrayal all the greater and what must be avenged – if he could find him again, if he was indeed here somewhere, looking to do something ‘spectacular’.

  The animal came with barely a sound, a buck, young but near to full size, sporting its first antlers. It strode to the water hardly glancing around the little dell, fearing nothing, bending to lap. Jack raised the rifle. He had oiled the mechanism so that it gave barely a sound as he cocked it though even that click was enough to make the stag raise its head, glance towards him, open its magnificent tufted chest to him, expose its heart.

  ‘My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth,’ thought Jack, breathing out on the line, squeezing gently.

  The powder flashed, the gun jerked. The buck leapt straight up, snorted, turned its head and bolted the way it had come. Throwing back his pine covering, Jack followed but at a trot,
not a run. He could hear the animal’s flight, no attempt on its part at stealth. He could not see it but he could see its signs, the earth churned by hooves, the spots of blood.

  He found it slumped beneath an aspen a hundred paces further on. As he approached, it raised its head, antlers levelled; but even as he walked up Jack could see life fading.

  ‘Go well, brother,’ he whispered softly in Iroquois as he knelt, holding a hand to the bloodied chest where a lead ball had entered the heart. ‘I give you thanks for your sacrifice.’

  The last light left the brown eyes. Jack stayed kneeling for a while, then reached into his satchel for his rope.

  ‘Do you think you might be able to use this, Corporal?’

  Jack slipped the knots over his head and tipped the deer from off his shoulders onto the wooden slab. The bliss of having that weight off him! He felt as though he might float to the ceiling of the wooden cookhouse, or collapse onto its floor, so sore were his knees after the stumbling descent from the forest.

  The cook of the third troop, who’d leapt in some shock at the sudden appearance of the beast before him, now stepped back and whistled. ‘You did ’er, then, sir,’ he said, wiping his hands across his remarkably hairy and quite bare chest. ‘Right ’appy I am, even though I put a shilling to five to say you wouldn’t.’

  Jack was barely surprised at the betting though a little at the shortness of the odds. It either meant that the cook was not an adept gambler or that someone had been talking him up. Worsley probably. ‘I know it’s customary to hang it for a while but—’

  ‘’Ang be bugger’d, beggin’ yours, sir. A young buck by its looks, and there’s ways of cookin’ it that’ll make ’un tender enough. But the lads are that ’ungry, they’d eat yon while it stood and pissed against a tree!’ He looked up, a little doubt growing. ‘That is, if you ain’t reserving this only for officers, like?’

  ‘What’s the strength of the troop at present, Corporal?’

  ‘Well, we lost a couple of lads on Belleisle but we suffered less than t’others. There’s fifty-one, including non-commissioneds, aside from officers.’

  ‘And how far will a buck like this go, less, let us say, the left haunch?’

  ‘With the best of the guts and the blood for pudding and all,’ the man pursed his lips, ‘it’ll feed sixty and give us stew for three days.’

  ‘Good. A haunch for the mess tonight will suffice. Spread the rest as wide as you can. And tell the lads to give three cheers for Her Majesty.’

  ‘I will, sir. And three for you as well.’

  Jack shrugged with as much modesty as he could muster. ‘I’d be grateful, though, if you could set aside just a few choice strips of belly flesh for me and dry them over the fire.’

  ‘Jerky, is it?’ Jack nodded. ‘Know the way of it, sir. I’ve some sugar to spare and I’ll pick wild sage for the coals to give it some savour.’ He puffed out his huge bare chest. ‘Served in Canada five year mesself.’

  ‘Did you indeed?’ A bugle sounded outside and Jack looked through the door to see part of the regiment riding past. ‘And if you could also set aside the antlers?’

  ‘A fine trophy indeed, sir. I’ll clean ’em personal.’

  ‘Thank you.’ As the cook started bellowing orders to his subordinates, Jack stepped out of the door and stood in the shade beneath the thatched, sloping roof. The cavalrymen looked as exhausted as he after a morning spent in the hot sun, eating dust. Most of the first two troops paid him no mind. Neither did Crawford, leading the third. But Worsley spotted him instantly, raising his eyebrows. When Jack nodded, he let out a whoop that drew the attention of Bob Stokey – now Cornet Stokey once again.

  He glowered down at Jack who smiled back and, when the horse drew quite level, pulled at the shirt he was wearing. It gave from his chest with a slight sucking sound, so soaked was it in blood. Stokey stared, shock, anger and bitterness chasing each other across his bulbous features. The rest of the regiment had turned the corner but still he glared back so Jack stepped further into the street and gave him the traditional two-fingered salute.

  Later, he was lying on his bed, convinced he’d never get up again, when Worsley burst in. ‘You did it, sir. By God, I knew you would.’

  ‘Is that why you bet against me with the cook?’

  Worsley did not look abashed one jot. ‘That was just covering myself, like, for the fool took five to one. I made plenty more from the ones who swore you could not do it and gave me eights.’ He beamed down. ‘Now, sir, in Devon, after a kill, there’s many a lad, feeling so manly now, looks for a different kind of sport. So how’s about I fetch up my friend, Jocasta, who just could not bear to see the regiment leave Abrantes without ’er. My shout, like, by way of thanks. She’s just below ’ere.’

  ‘Worsley, will you cease trying to pimp for me!’ Jack bellowed. ‘I am perfectly capable of finding my own whores should the need arise.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are, sir,’ the man replied, tongue wedged in his cheek.

  ‘But if you wish to show your gratitude there is something you could get me.’

  ‘Anything you like, sir.’

  Jack regarded the blood and dust that covered him. ‘I cannot appear at the Queen’s feast looking like Banquo’s ghost. Can you get me a bath?’

  Though the taberna the officers had selected for their mess in Castelo de Vide was smaller than their former one in Abrantes, the door swung open on an almost identical scene. True, the two lines of men that turned as Jack entered, late as ever, were dressed better, for they were not clad in their casual frock coats but in their best uniforms, just as Jack was. But their expressions as they looked at him were about the same; most bland, one glowering – Stokey, of course, glaring at the rack of antlers Jack bore. The main difference of the table was that, at the president’s end where Major Somerville stood, no pot of thin stew awaited. Instead the Major was poised, carving knife and fork in hand, over a steaming haunch of venison.

  ‘Nearly gave up on you,’ he snapped. Jack could almost see the drool gathering in his mouth. Indeed, the savour of roasted meat brought an immediate rush of saliva to his own. ‘Take your place, man.’

  Jack marched to the one empty chair but before he could sit, Somerville, laying down the cutlery, spoke again. ‘Gentlemen, now we are all finally gathered,’ he called, and the officers rose to a man, bumpers to hand, ‘I give you the Queen’s Birthday.’

  ‘The Queen! God bless her.’ Bumpers were drained, swiftly refilled by scurrying servants. The wine was good, better than at Abrantes, Jack thought. He was about to sit when he noticed no one else was. Somerville looked at him again and said, ‘And I also give you three huzzahs for the man who provides the feast: Lieutenant Jack Absolute.’ ‘Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!’

  – SEVEN –

  The Storming of

  Valencia de Alcàntara

  It had been a fine evening, infinitely superior to that previous one in food, drink and society. For the first, the deer haunch was not as tough as Jack feared, the cook having stewed it first in some of the region’s sweet wine, then larded it liberally with fat from some other source, which was not worth dwelling upon. The drink, too, as Jack’s first quaff had told him, was better than before. And as for the company, only Glowering Bob, as Jack had by now dubbed him, remained frozen to him. The rest, even Captain Crawford, thawed.

  Jack was unable to avoid drinking when he was toasted – he was not going to give up these fellows’ estimation by not holding his own – but he was moderate when unobserved, drinking far less than he had before.

  Others, indeed most of them, were not so restrained. By midnight, those who had not rested their heads upon the table for a doze were beginning to collect the stocks and jackets they had discarded when the action got boisterous. Jack, though tired, was content for the moment just to sit. Many a night in Rome he had dreamed of such conviviality and he was not desperate for it to end. Thus he was probably the only one sober enough to note the door that l
ed to the rest of the inn opening again. He stood swiftly because it was a rule for the night that, just in case a lady should enter, the regiment’s officers must be upstanding at all entrances. The last one on his feet would be forced to drink a bumper, which accounted for Glowering Bob’s recumbent position under the table; he’d spent too much time staring malevolently and had paid the forfeit once too often.

  No one else noticed the man who came in. He remained in the doorway, one hand upon the wood, taking in the scene. He was wearing a pale-blue hunting jacket, a ruffled shirt and a waistcoat of emerald-dyed silk. It was the quality and cut of the clothes that reminded Jack who the man was, rather than the face. John Burgoyne was probably the only regimental commander who actually took his tailor to war with him.

  ‘Lieutenant-Colonel Commandant Burgoyne in the mess!’ Jack bellowed.

  Few stirred. Major Somerville only raised his head from the table to say, ‘Bugger off, man. Enough of your japes,’ before lowering it again.

  ‘Actually, Hugh, the fellow’s quite right.’

  The voice was low-pitched, warm yet carried. It brought everyone to their feet, some swifter than others. Only Stokey lay still.

  Somerville was desperately trying to put on his jacket. ‘Sir! Colonel! I am most sorry, we—’

  Burgoyne waved away his blusters. ‘Nothing to apologize for, my good man. ‘’Tis the Queen’s Birthday and I was hoping to be here to spend it with you. Portuguese roads, alas. But I trust you have all done the regiment credit with your celebrations?’ He was peering down at the debris on the table, his gaze finally falling on the much-hacked haunch of meat. ‘Great Christ, what’s that?’

  ‘Venison, sir.’

  ‘Venison, be god? I suspect I’ve tasted nothing meatier than rat in a week.’ He was still wearing riding gauntlets, which he now jerked off and threw down. ‘Any left?’

  Somerville lifted his knife dubiously. ‘I may be able, sir—’

  Burgoyne sat at the middle of the table. ‘Never mind that, just fling the carcass here,’ he said. When it reached him, he twisted the end bone from its socket and threw the smaller piece to a hitherto unnoticed officer who had followed him in. ‘You all remember my adjutant, Cornet Griffiths, do you not?’