John Haggard dismounted more slowly, felt the gravel crunching under his boots. He continued to stare at the woman, his brain tumbling as he took off his hat. He could feel the heat in his cheeks, and did not know what to do with his hands.
Emma had given her daughter a quick interrogatory look, and received a brief nod. Now she came forward. 'You'll be John,' she said. 'Alice has told me a deal about you.'
John's turn to glance at Alice, ‘I . . . I had supposed you dead, ma'am.'
'Is that what your father says of me?'
'Why, no. My father has never spoken of you. But neither has Alice.'
She nodded. 'My decision. She will have to tell us both why she has spoken of me now.' She stretched out her arms. 'Will you not at least take my hand?'
John slowly extended his own arms, held her fingers; they were cool and dry. ‘I am totally confused.'
Then come inside.' She released him, led him towards the open door. From within he could hear the gentle murmur of plucking strings and rustling cloth. He ducked his head, entered the front room of the cottage, gazed at the three people who sat there, now abandoning their looms to get up.
‘I’d have you meet my husband, Harry Bold,' Emma said.
The man was short and thickset, twice the size of his wife although he only came to her shoulder. His hair and beard were black speckled with grey. His eyes were watchful, but not hostile. John shook hands.
'My son, Tim.'
A copy of his father, perhaps a year older than himself, John estimated.
'And my daughter Meg.'
John turned, hand outstretched, and found his mouth opening. Margaret Bold was equally a copy of her mother, without any of the off-putting cragginess of the Haggards, such as afflicted Alice. Here was pure beauty, not like the portrait he possessed of his mother, where the very perfection of the features had suggested coldness, but in the warmth of her rounded chin, her short nose, her wide mouth, her sparkling blue eyes. And like both her mother and his sister, she had wavy auburn hair, loose and stretching almost to her waist.
But Alice is her sister as well, he realised with a start of dismay. And looked around him in amazement. The people were simply if cleanly dressed—the women wore gowns with aprons and slippers, their bodices modestly high necked—as was the cottage simply furnished.
'He's in a tizzy,' Alice said, not unkindly. 'My mother is not dead, as you can see, John. Your father, our father, threw her out when she had served her purpose.'
That is not altogether true,' Emma said.
'Why must you defend him? He is an utter brute.'
'I will not have you tell lies about him. Have you heard of me, John?'
'A little.' John Haggard could not keep his gaze from returning to the girl, as no doubt her parents observed.
'You'll take a glass of cider,' Harry Bold said.
John's head turned in surprise; never had any man with such an accent addressed him without saying sir. But why should Harry Bold call him sir?
‘I would like that very much,' he said.
'And you'll sit down, and tell us why Alice has brought you here,'
Emma said. 'Your father will not be pleased. He'll not be pleased to know we are within even ten miles of Derleth.'
Then I shall not tell him.' John watched the girl sit down and take up her cloth. 'You are industrious.'
Emma sat beside him. Harry Bold gave him a mug of glowing cider. ' Tis a sight better than traipsing the country. And it is a good living.'
'Which Father would destroy,' Alice said.
'What's that?' Harry Bold demanded.
'It is his latest scheme. Apparently he has lost an entire sugar crop to privateers and weather . . .' That would not please him,' Emma said.
'He is determined to replace the loss, to shift the emphasis of his wealth, as he says, from the West Indies to England. As I told you, he has never got over being defeated on the Slave Trade Question.'
'And how can that affect us?' Emma asked.
'He is building a factory,' Alice explained. 'Into which he is going to put the machine looms. He intends to take over the cotton weaving for this entire area. He will put you out of work.'
Emma frowned at her daughter.
'But it is our livelihood,' Tim Bold protested.
'Do you think that matters to my father?' Alice cried.
'And how do you stand in this, boy?' Harry Bold asked.
'Why, I ... I knew nothing of it, until an hour ago.'
'But he assumes Father must be right,' Alice said bitterly.
'I . . . I had not properly considered the matter,' John protested. 'Be sure that I will consider it now. I do promise you.'
'Why, then, 1 am sure we have naught to bother about,' Emma said. She rested her hand on top of his. 'And you'll come to see us again, John Haggard. You will always be welcome here, I promise you.'
John gazed at her, found his eyes sliding away from her face to look at Meg, just visible over her shoulder. In twenty years' time, Meg would look like this. Why, she would be just as lovely then as she was now.
‘I’ll come to see you again. Mistress Bold,' he said. 'You have my word.'
CHAPTER 2
THE SOLDIER
Low clouds gathered above the Sierra do Mondedal, shrouded the mountain peaks, dipped down into the valley as scything April rain. The huge drops cannoned on to the burnished helmets of the dragoons, splattered from the barrels of the great cannon creaking along the road, embedded themselves in the bearskins of the Guards, dripped from the brims of the shabby shakoes which denoted the bobbing heads of the infantry of the line.
'Bleeding weather,' grumbled Private Corcoran. 'Don't the sun
ever shine?'
He was a replacement. His jacket was a crisp crimson, his trousers a fresh grey rather than a nondescript brown. His cross belts were still white and his musket gleamed; his shako still possessed a strap. He had joined the Army as part of a draft from England, after the Passage of the Douro had sent Marshal Soult tumbling back from Oporto in disarray. He knew nothing, as his immediate comrades knew nothing. As yet.
But they would learn. Already from in front of them there came the rumble of gunfire, and the hoarse sound of men shouting.
'On the double, the 29th.' Captain Llewellyn came trotting down the disordered column. 'Close up, there, close up. Sergeant Major, take that man's name.'
For Corcoran was trailing his musket by the strap.
'Corcoran,' the sergeant major snapped. 'Pick it up, boy. Pick it up.'
Private Corcoran hastily shouldered his musket, broke into a trot with the rest of his fellows, eyeing the sergeant major who ran alongside him. Sergeant Major Smith. There was more to him than first met the eye. He was a young man, still in his early thirties, and his accent was unplaceable, a trace of brogue littered with the remnants of what might even once have been a toff. But he was a veteran. He had crawled over the sand dunes of Walcheren as a private, and he had seen Abercrombie die outside Alexandria as a corporal. As a sergeant, only a year ago, he had marched with Moore over the mountains of this self same land into the haven of Corunna, and instead of sailing home with the battered remnants of that army, he had volunteered to change his regiment and remain with the nucleus around which had been formed this new army, Wellesley's army. His skin was burned the colour of mahogany, and his moustache drooped like that of a froggie. But he was a man. Far more so than any of the perfumed officers on their high trotting horses.
'What's the shooting, Sergeant Major?' inquired Private Withers on Corcoran's left.
'Rearguard,' Smith grunted. They've not better than that left in Portugal.'
Now they could see the houses, what remained of them; wisps of smoke still rose into the damp air. And now too they could see the dragoons galloping out the far side of the village, waving their swords.
'Column.' Captain Llewellyn came down the line.
The men fell into column of fours, tramping along the rutted road, splashing i
n and out of puddles.
'Keep time there,' Sergeant Major Smith bawled as the drummer took up the beat. 'Left, left, left right left. Goddam you, don't you know your left foot?'
Captain Llewellyn and Lieutenants Portman and Mayhew had taken their place at the head of the column, the sergeants flanked the recruits. For now too they could smell the stench, and not only of burning timber. They could see the gallows, where the three bodies hung, swaying gently, perhaps still warm; the French had only just evacuated their billets. And nearer at hand there was a dead woman, her skirts thrown above her head, her legs strangely white and twisted. Even in April, the bees were gathering above the great rent in her belly.
Someone vomited. 'Keep time there,' Sergeant Major Smith commanded. 'Keep time.'
'When will they stand and fight, Sergeant Major?' someone asked.
They'll fight when they're ready,' the sergeant major said. 'And you'll know about it. Keep time.'
The Worcestershire Regiment tramped through the shattered village, and Captain Llewellyn held up his hand.
'We bivouac over there," he said.
'Begging your pardon, sir,' Sergeant Major Smith said. 'May the lads use wood from the village?'
Llewellyn considered for a moment, then nodded. 'Very good, Sergeant Major.' He wheeled his horse and rode across to the next company where battalion headquarters was to be found.
'Fall out,' Smith commanded. 'You heard the captain. Let's have some fires now. Fall out.'
The men broke into excited chatter as they stacked their muskets, discarded their belts and knapsacks, prepared their foraging tools.
'Picquets,' Smith said. 'You, Corcoran.'
'Me, Sergeant Major? Why me?'
'Because I'm saving you from a flogging, that's why boy. You and you. Go with Corcoran. That hummock over there. Face the east. There's our enemy. You there. Muskets are stacked, not left to lie in the mud. You, sir, get that hat on.'
He wondered what they'd fight like, when the time came. But he didn't suppose it was really a reason for concern. He had taken enough recruits and moulded them into fighting soldiers during the past few years, and this lot certainly didn't lack enthusiasm.
Hooves. 'Fall in there,' he bawled. 'Fall in.' A hasty glance across the sodden field assured him that this was not merely Captain Llewellyn returning, and not even Colonel Hallam accompanying him, but that they were both escorting the general of division himself, Sir Rowland Hill. The sergeant major felt his heart pounding. It was his bad luck that the Worcesters had been brigaded under Hill, a man with whom he had once played cards. But there was really no cause for alarm; the combination of seventeen years, of his moustache, and of all commissioned officers' tendency to regard NCOs as NCOs rather than as men protected him.
'At ease.' The general's cheeks were pink, as ever, and his mouth was smiling. Now he pointed at the hills to their east. 'Over there, lads, is Spain. Tomorrow we'll be there. But you want to remember lads, that they are our allies. Just as much as the Portuguese. I'll hang the first man who takes without paying, and the first man who lifts a skirt without invitation. We're here to fight the frogs, lads. And I can tell you this, they aren't far away. But if they won't fight us, why, we intend to march on Madrid and send Joseph Bonaparte home, on his ass. That's our plan, lads, so keep your powder dry.'
Three cheers for the general,' shouted Captain Llewellyn. 'Hip hip . . .'
The Worcesters responded with a will, the little cavalcade rode on, leaving the captain behind.
'Dismiss the men, Sergeant Major,' Llewellyn said, and dismounted himself. 'And bring me that fellow who was trailing his musket.'
Smith remained at attention. 'I have given him picquet duty, sir. Tonight and every night for the next week.'
Llewellyn frowned, and then nodded. 'Saves the waste of time of a flogging, eh. Sergeant Major? Punishment confirmed. Fall out the men. And tell them the general means what he says. It's Madrid for us, and then, the end of the war will be in sight. You tell them that, Sergeant Major.'
The end of the war. It was not something Sergeant Major Smith had ever seriously considered. This war had lasted too long for it ever to end. But it occurred to him that he must have considered it once. He could hardly remember. He had fled Alison Brand's bed —strange how he could only think of her as Alison Brand, rather than Alison Haggard—blindly, fearfully, aware only that he had committed as ghastly a crime as it was possible to consider. That he had been innocently involved, that the real crime was hers, had not seemed relevant. She had been Father's wife, Father's young and beautiful wife, and there could be no doubt of his love for her, of whose side he would take.
Even if she could be proved to be hardly better than a whore? But how to prove that?
So then, what it came down to, was fear of Father rather than remorse at what he had done. He had merely anticipated what Father would have done to him, by running away without a shilling in his pocket, by deserting his commission, which at any time would have left him an object worthy only of contempt, and also by deserting his regiment, in time of war, which left him worthy only of a hanging. Then he had sought death, but without the courage to take his own life. Then he had presumed that as a front line soldier he would soon stop a bullet, and be forgotten.
Seventeen years ago. He had been surprised, at once by the realisation that however much of a moral coward he might be he was certainly not a physical one, and even more by the realisation that he liked the army life. Even the aimless marching and countermarching amidst the canals and in the rains of Holland, with malaria fever making his teeth chatter at every step, or the searing heat of the Egyptian desert, had been enjoyable. As he expected to die, wished to die, he had lived every day for itself, had fought every battle as his last. And as was the whim of Fate, had prospered. Nor had he ever doubted that the peace of 1802 was more than a truce. The war would not end until Napoleon had beaten the English or was himself beaten by the English. That was obvious.
By which token the mere expulsion of Joseph Bonaparte from Spain would mean very little. Yet after seventeen years even he must realise that the war had to end some day, and that he might very well survive that day. But why should it make any difference? He was a professional soldier. As a company sergeant major he was nearly at the top of his particular branch of his profession, and Great Britain would still need an army, even after peace with the French. He would remain with the colours. No man could ask for better anonymity.
‘Ah, 'tis a wonderful place,' Corcoran commented, tramping as usual at his shoulder. The contrast with Portugal was nothing short of miraculous. Instead of burned and looted villages, here were clean and prosperous towns; instead of starvation rations of whatever they could carry in their knapsacks, here were market places filled with produce; instead of mayors and town clerks hanging from improvised gallows at every crossroad here were haughty officials who regarded the British soldiers with a mixture of suspicion and contempt. And instead of the tormented and mutilated bodies of young women in the gutters, here were dark-eyed beauties hiding behind shawls and mantillas, peering down at the marching soldiers from wrought iron balustrades, sometimes tossing flowers for the men to catch. No French army had as yet retreated through this pleasant land.
And what of the pleasant land you have foresworn, Roger wondered? He had no idea. He had no idea what might have become of it, in seventeen years. The exploits of John Haggard made little impact upon the national scene, as he had turned his back upon that scene, nor would Roger ever inquire. He knew his father lived, because he had read of his impassioned speech against the abolition of Slave Trade, only two years ago. How his defeat on that occasion must have angered the old man. But for the rest, he knew nothing. He knew nothing of Charlie, whether he was by now a captain or even an admiral. He knew naught of Alice's marriage. He knew nothing of Alison's amours, and of her children. He knew nothing of what had happened in Derleth Valley, save that he did not doubt it would be as prosperous as ever. He sometimes won
dered if his room remained as he left it, what he would feel like were he to re-enter it. Childish thoughts, because only a child had ever dwelled there.
'Fall out.' The order came down the line. The men moved more smartly now, at once because of their increased experience and because of the crowd watching them.
'Sergeant Major, do you suppose . . . ?' Corcoran was exchanging smiles with two Spanish girls across the street.
'You'll make your own decision about that, Private. But remember what the general said. He's a man of his word.'
Corcoran winked. 'And what about you, Sergeant Major? Don't you ever feel the urge?'
'A clapped soldier is no damn use to anyone,' Roger remarked, and walked away. He messed by himself, although his tent was next to the company sergeants'. They knew better than to attempt to penetrate his reserve; Sergeant Major Smith was a law unto himself.
But didn't he ever feel the urge? Especially now, on a warm summer's day? Gone we're the rains of the spring and the icy blasts which had accompanied them from the mountains. Now the sun shone out of a blue sky, and the land through which they had marched was already turning to brown dust, which eddied above the column and obscured the brilliance of their uniforms while denoting the passage of troops for miles around. But he had turned his back on women, years ago. Not intentionally. As a private soldier he had taken his turn in line for the few whores who had been available, and suffered the humiliation of impotence as Alison's face had risen before him, as her scent had clouded around him. No women for Sergeant Major Smith. He was a man of iron. There was a subtle joke, appreciated only by himself.
But how he wished this marching would end, and they could again see their enemy. It made sense, of course. If Marshal Victor would not assault them until he was sure which way they were moving, there was no need for Sir Arthur Wellesley to assault Marshal Victor until his army had been brought up to strength, until his ammunition wagons had been replenished, until his veterans had been rested and his recruits assimilated. But that was done. Roger could look down at the glowing red of his jacket, the gleaming white of his belts; he had even been presented with a new staff, and his shako was a crisp brown instead of a disintegrating grey. While no one could doubt that Corcoran and the others were as trained as they would ever be, barring only the experience of actual combat. Too much more of this lying about in cantonments and discipline would suffer. 'Pensive, Sergeant Major?'
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