How alone I felt on those moors! How helpless! I could not know where the soldiers were now. I knew that the horsemen still pursued me – I could hear the thunder of hoofs, the clanking of metal, the occasional shout. But were more soldiers awaiting me further on?
If I could only find a place to hide and throw off my red jacket, I might escape. If I could only summon some extra speed, mayhap I could round a corner, or find some trees, or take a turning which they did not see. The soldiers’ horses were built for strength, not speed – I could perchance outpace them.
Again, I pushed Sapphire on, pressing her hard with my legs. I spoke to her, praising her, urging her, asking everything of her. My fingers gripped her mane tightly and I could smell her rich scent as she galloped, giving every bit of her strength.
But how long could she keep this up? Sweat flecked her shoulders and her breathing was heavy now, laboured and gasping.
I could hear a bugle in the distance. I did not know what it meant. Were they coming from another direction? I tried to look around, searching for movement, looking for the tell-tale red splashes of their jackets. But in the snatched moment I could tell nothing useful. Everything was blurred, like raindrops scattering across a window in a storm.
We were approaching a hedge. Knowing not what was on the other side, I had no choice – we must jump. I held my breath, and squeezed shut my eyes, as we rose into the air, flying over the bare winter branches. Sapphire stumbled, catching her foot on something in the hedge. It was only a slight stumble, but it was enough – with horror, I felt myself spinning helplessly in the air, flying, falling, and landing on my back with a thump that shook the breath from my body. Desperately, I rolled over, over and over, back towards the hedge: when the other horses jumped, I had no wish to be beneath their pounding feet.
My arms clasped over my head, my eyes screwed shut, my body tensing for the pain, I lay there, waiting. A small pat of melting snow slid off a branch and dropped on the back of my neck.
Still I waited. Perhaps they would not see me? Perhaps they would charge on before they even knew I was there? Sapphire had galloped onwards. Or so I thought.
But after some few moments, when I dared look up from my position face down in the wetness, I saw her standing not far off, holding her front leg awkwardly. With fear, I saw how her fetlock swelled already and her head hung down in pain.
Poor Sapphire would be no help to me now.
Chapter Forty-Five
Nothing could save me. I could only wait for the redcoats to come. When they discovered that I was not Henry Parish, I might expect no mercy. I clenched my fists and breathed the mud and snow beneath my face. The wetness was seeping into my clothes.
Moments passed and stretched into a time I could not measure. And still I could hear no approaching hoofbeats. Nothing except the haunting sounds of that bugle. And, when I listened more carefully, the distant rattle of a drummer. What was happening?
After a few moments more, I rolled over and began to get to my feet. Buzzards wheeled overhead, floating, waiting.
With caution, I peered over the hedge. No horsemen approached. But further away, two groups of men, redcoats, were riding towards each other. One group, I guessed from its direction, was the same one that had been pursuing me. I saw other men, on foot, at various points along the brow of a hill, to the left.
I was looking almost south – this much I could tell by the pale glow of the sun behind the clouds a little to my left. To the west, thick mist hung mysteriously low, hiding the landscape. One group of riders came from there. From the direction Bess and Henry had taken.
Sapphire stood behind me, blowing vapour into the air. I went to her and stroked her nose. Neither one of us could know more than the other what was about to happen.
And then I simply stood behind the hedge. Uncertain what else to do, I watched and waited. I knew not what to think – whether to fear or to be relieved, whether danger was past or only waiting for me. My heartbeat settled, my body became calm, but I still could not know what to do.
Now the two groups of horsemen, together, had wheeled around and were galloping to the west.
And then … no! I strained my eyes, trying to see as clearly as I might. Two figures on horseback, coming slowly from that same direction. One in a red coat, the other in some darker colour. But … surely it could not be? I narrowed my eyes further. It was! It was Bess. But if this was Bess, where then was Henry? And why was she here? With a redcoat riding beside her? Why was she riding into danger?
The redcoat with her did not seem to hold her prisoner. She appeared to ride slightly ahead of him.
She was riding towards the mounted soldiers. Her horse was no more than trotting, as though she was in no hurry. I could not say if the men she approached were those who had entered her house so roughly and treated her with such contempt, but if they were, might they not recognize her?
Fear came rushing back now, and I wished that Sapphire was not lame. But what could I have done even had she been sound?
The horsemen slowed and stopped when they came to Bess and the other rider, who both stopped too. Some conversation took place and I saw Bess point in the direction from which she had come. I did not understand. That must be where Henry was. Why was she pointing in his direction?
My jaw was clenched tight as a poacher’s trap as I waited for her to walk on, for them to let her pass. Several times, I thought I saw them shift, moving to let her through, but each time, she moved not onwards and I could only hope and pray.
When, at last, they parted and she walked through alone, I found that my fingernails had dug so hard into my palms that blood formed in crescent shapes. My knuckles were white.
I watched her closely, still watched them too, for any sign of trouble, of more danger. But she seemed only to walk on as though nothing had happened. They, meanwhile, galloped away in the direction she had indicated.
I wished I could call out to her. I must speak to her, must ask what had happened. Where was Henry and why had our plan gone so awry? And what should we do now?
The mournful sound of the bugle came again, and I saw the men on foot reassemble. I saw them stand and wait. What were they waiting for?
Bess was now moving across the hillside to my left, riding east. I watched her stop. She looked back at the disappearing riders, glanced casually at the soldiers, appearing to have no fear. What was in her mind? I surmised that she knew they did not want her. To them, she was just a passing lad, adequately well-dressed and mounted on a good horse with a high-quality saddle. They did not know she was in fact a young woman, that tumbling black hair was coiled beneath her tricorne hat. How could they know?
But no matter how I tried to read her mind, I could not know why she was there.
I watched her begin to move again, walking, sometimes trotting, but not appearing to hurry. She parted from the track and veered further to her left, until, eventually, she was riding up the hill, almost towards where I was. Did she know I was there?
I looked down the hillside. Another bugle call trailed through the air like music from a watery grave. I had been hunting, of course, many times: the bugle calls brought this to my mind, though they were not the same. But I knew they must be telling the soldiers something. None of the men within my sight moved; they stood and waited – for what, I did not know.
Could I risk moving from the hedge? The soldiers did not seem interested now in the boy in the red coat whom they had chased. It seemed they knew that I was not Henry Parish, the deserter and thief. Our plan had failed.
Only then did I think of removing the red jacket and my soldier’s hat. With my foot, I scraped a shallow hole in the wet earth beneath the hedge, and pressed the garments as flat as I could into the shallow dip, covering them with sticks and dead leaves. No longer was I Henry Parish. Although I confess to feeling some relief, I believe there was more sadness and anger.
Now, I could only hope that, somehow, they would not catch Henry. Could I dare hope
for so much?
Bess was out of sight, having disappeared behind a ridge. I wanted her with me now. I did not wish to lose sight of the soldiers; nor did I wish to leave Sapphire; but I must find Bess, to discover what was happening and for what reason. I moved along the line of the hedge, towards the very brow of the hill. Surely the soldiers would not see me here, even should they look. And if they saw me, who was I? Just a lad, a shepherd perhaps? In the distance, I could be anyone, but not Henry Parish, not without my red coat.
I hurried now towards the brow. And there was Bess, riding towards me, cantering now. She was out of breath, her eyes blazing, her face red with exertion.
“Will! Thank goodness I have found you! Our plan failed!” Her voice trembled. She pulled Merlin to a halt beside me and jumped down. She could see Sapphire some way away beside the hedge, and we went in that direction.
“What happened?” I asked. “Why did the soldiers stop pursuing me? I saw you ride…”
She was staring down the hill as she answered. I looked but nothing had changed – still the men waited in their groups. “The road was blocked.” She shook her head in anger and frustration. “There had been a flood after the melting snow and then a landslide, making the valley impassable. I had to take a different route. When we could not cross the river, Henry refused to go on. He said he would not put me in danger. I said I did it not for him but for his mother and sister … but he would not listen. He burned with fervour. You can scarce imagine his appearance. He said that he would never reach his mother and sister and that even if he did, how could a few bags of flour help? His mother and sister might even find themselves in danger. And so…” she paused, looking at me now.
“Yes?” I said, when she did not continue.
“And so, I made Henry Parish a promise.”
I was filled with dread. What had she promised?
“I told him that if something happened to him, we would help his mother and sister. And that we would avenge him.” I imagined that that part would not have been difficult for Bess to promise. Besides, I felt almost as much hatred for the redcoats now as she did.
But, as for helping the boy’s family, why should I wish to? Why should I put myself in danger for them? And yet these thoughts disappeared almost as quickly as they had come – I was not the same as I had been only a few days ago. Much had happened since then. If helping Henry Parish’s poor family was what I must do, where my honour led me, then that was the course I must take.
I could still hope that he would escape. I would still hope that. And pray, which I now did.
Chapter Forty-Six
Bess gasped. She pointed. At first I could not see what she had seen. The sun had burst through the clouds and we were almost facing into it. I squinted. Did I see movement? Did I see someone? Someone running? Did I see horses following? Did I hear a bugle, ringing out time and time again? Did I see the waiting soldiers stir, take positions, load and prime their muskets?
Did I see the sun glinting on steel?
I know I saw some horses, splashes of red above them, moving at speed, back from the way they had come. But I did not see at first whom they pursued.
I know I heard Bess cry out again. I know I saw her put her hand to her mouth. But her eyes must have been sharper than mine, for still I did not see what she saw.
“Where?” The word breathed from my mouth, as though by whispering I could change anything. If by shouting I could have changed the course of events, I would have shouted. If, by running down the hill and waving my arms, I could have turned those horses, changed their riders’ minds, I would have done so gladly.
I know Bess grabbed my arm, pointed my hand to the other side of the valley. I know she did not let go and that her fingers dug into my wrist like steel. And then, I know that I, too, gasped, and held my breath, frozen in horror.
“The fool!” whispered Bess. “I knew he would do something like this!”
It was, of course, Henry Parish. He had run from some woods, not from the hillside where I had seen Bess appear, nor the place to which she had directed the soldiers, but perhaps half a mile away to the south-west. But he was not running away. He was running down into the valley, into the open, into the arms of the waiting soldiers.
“Why does he not run away?” I asked, in disbelief. “Can he not see the redcoats? Can he not see them everywhere?” And, indeed, in every direction were those horrifying splashes of red. Tiny bloodstains. As though some wounded colossus had shaken his head across the land.
There were not many of them, perhaps fifty or sixty, but one would have been sufficient, if he ran straight towards him.
“Yes, he can see them,” said Bess bitterly. “He is running to his death.”
“We must do something!”
“No,” she said, quietly. “We cannot. This is Henry’s choosing.”
“How can we let him? How can we give up?”
“Because nothing we can do here will help Henry. We can only help him by continuing what he was trying to do. I should have known this was his intention. There was something possessing him when I left him, a fervour I had never seen. We were on the hill over there and we saw you being pursued. Henry could not bear it. He said he could not live if you died for him. And so I left him there, telling him to run away as fast and as far as he could. Then I rode back, approaching from a different way, and told the redcoats I had seen a frightened boy. And they believed me. Henry could have escaped – but he would not. He had given up.”
It was more than Bess could bear to watch. But I must watch. Still I hoped, against all hope, that something would happen. I prayed for some miracle that would save poor Henry Parish. I prayed to God – as strongly as ever I have – that, if there were any justice in the world, He should save Henry Parish. God can do such things, can He not? If He wishes to.
I watched.
I have been hare coursing, many times. Often the hare escapes. I have watched, just as I did then, from the brow of a hill, as the scene unfolds beneath me. But with hare coursing, the hare has as much chance as the hounds. One cannot say which will win.
Henry Parish had no chance. He gave himself no chance. They gave him none.
He ran, more and more slowly, down the hillside opposite us, his thin arms flailing, his head thrown back. As he came closer, I fancied I could see his wide eyes and his mouth open in what was almost a laugh. At the bottom of the hill, he came to a stream, which he crossed in one leap. On the other side, he looked around, deciding which way to go.
The soldiers moved closer. They went at walking pace, carelessly. Their prey had no weapons. They had nothing to fear. The horses now stopped galloping, soon slowing to a walk. I could distinguish the man with the moustache, the one who had so insulted Bess. If I could have taken him with my bare hands, I would have. But it would have been for nothing. I boiled with hatred for him and for men like him.
Bess was watching now. I could hear her breathing. On occasion, sounds came from her lips, little gasps of horror. It was unbearable. And yet, how much worse for Henry? Bess clutched my arm. I put my hand over hers. Her knuckles felt tight, sharp, cold.
The soldiers came slowly closer to Henry. He moved up the hillside a little, and then turned to his right, no longer walking towards us. And then he stopped. He simply stood there as the soldiers moved closer. I counted them – not because it made any difference, but because I wished this recorded on my mind. I wished never to forget. I wished to recollect them in detail. I wished each to bear guilt. I did not know what went through their minds – I did not wish or need to know. I hope they felt guilt, but I suspect they did not. I suspect they had not learned to think. After all, I had not learned to think until such a little time before. So how should they?
Closer and closer they came. Now they were some fifty yards away from their target. Henry was soon within range. Slowly, so slowly, they moved round, so that now they fanned him in a semi-circle.
Henry knelt on the ground.
“No
!” cried Bess. I held her arm tightly. But she turned away. Finally, she could not watch. And so it was that I was the only one who witnessed Henry Parish’s death. I was the only one who saw him clasp his hands to God. The only one who saw the officer raise his pistol and check the priming. I saw the man flick the hammer with his thumb, I saw him pause, I fancy I saw him smile, I saw him shoot. Bess winced as she heard it. Henry did not fall, though I saw his body jerk and a spray of red spread across his shoulder. I saw the officer lower his other hand, and as he did we heard the horrible crash of fifty muskets firing and Henry’s small body splintered and disappeared.
So it was that they killed Henry Parish. The redcoats shot him dead, down like a dog on the hillside.
And I would not forget. I would never forget.
Chapter Forty-Seven
It is hard to talk about my feelings. It was hard even to understand fully myself what those feelings were. I know they were raw, and confused, as though something inside me had been shattered, as though the bullets that killed Henry had hit me too. Yet Henry lay there dead, in pieces, destroyed, asleep for ever. And I was still here, whole and yet not whole.
I cannot know what Bess felt, for neither of us spoke much as we made our slow way home. But I think she felt as I did: an unbearable mixture of horror, anger, sorrow, and guilt. Henry had died in order to save us and his family. He had been braver than I could ever be.
If I wished one thing, it was that I had said something kind to Henry Parish. When we had parted, I had said nothing. If Henry’s soul listened now, I wished him to know of my respect. That he was a better man than I. But that I would be true to our word: we would help his mother and sister. And we would avenge him.
I imagine that the same thoughts passed through Bess’s mind.
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