Haggard

by Christopher Nicole

  'There goes the cavalry, lads,' he shouted. 'Give them a cheer.'

  Once again the Worcesters responded, only to have their cries die in their throats as they watched in horror the entire leading squadrons of the charging cavalry disappear into an unsuspected ravine, men and horses plummetting to their deaths in a mass of waving arms and legs and swords, of cries and neighs, of commands by the remaining officers as they brought their men under control, wheeled to the left, and continued their charge.

  'Brave men,' Llewellyn said. 'Brave men.'

  The French had formed square, and the horse, instead of vainly assaulting the bristling bayonets, rode round them to disperse a regiment of chasseurs coming to their rescue. Thus isolated the French began to retreat.

  There it is.' General Hill had remounted, and stood behind them. Now he pointed, and in the distance they could see the rearmost French troops beginning a movement back along the road to Madrid. 'We've won, boys. We've held them off. Three cheers for Old England.'

  Once again the men responded with a will, but Roger, standing away from the main body, suddenly felt his nostrils twitch. He turned to look down the hill, where the dead and wounded lay scattered in and out of the brook, left there not only by the encounter of the early morning but by the more recent action of the Guards. There a spark had ignited the parched grass, and now tongues of flame were licking upwards, and the cries of agony were redoubled as the wounded discovered themselves about to be burned to death.

  'Captain Llewellyn, sir,' he said. 'Permission to attend the wounded with a detail.'

  Llewellyn followed the direction of his pointing finger. 'My God,' he said. 'What a fate. General Hill . . .'

  But Hill had seen it too. 'Aye,' he said. 'If you can find some volunteers, Sergeant Major. But take care, man, take care.'

  'Who'll come with me to help those poor fellows?' Roger shouted.

  'Oh, I will, Mr. Smith,' Corcoran cried.

  'And I,' called another, and then nearly the whole company hurried forward.

  The French may come again,' General Hill pointed out. 'You may take no more than a dozen men, Sergeant Major.'

  'Very good, sir.' Roger pointed. 'You, Corcoran, and you and you. Come along now, lads. Let's make haste.'

  They slung their muskets and followed him down the hill. Now the flames were high and very bright, and the heat seemed redoubled, while the cries of the wounded grew ever more piteous.

  'Help, for God's sake, help me,' someone cried.

  'Over there.' Roger directed the men, continued on his way. He knelt beside a gasping guardsman. 'Easy now, old fellow. Help is coming.'

  'Help me, monsieur,' another voice shouted.

  He turned, gazed at the flames. He sucked air into his lungs, discovered it was impossible to take a proper breath, pushed through the yellow wall, which licked at his legs and scorched his jacket. A French officer lay at his feet, blood and intestines trailing away from the terrible wound in his belly. No help was possible for him. But he could die more easily.

  'I'll get you out, monsieur,' he said, and stooped, raising the man's arm and placing it over his shoulder, reaching down through the blood and mess for his legs, checking as he heard a movement behind him. He turned his head, gazed at the other Frenchman, whom he had supposed dead, but who was now raising himself on his elbow, and thrusting forward his musket.

  'Easy old fellow,' Roger said. 'I'll be back for you in a moment. Easy.'

  The musket exploded into flame.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE CRIME

  There you are, Mr. Haggard.' MacGuinness pointed at the heap of rags, dried twigs, paper, fire blackened to be sure, but never really allowed to develop into a bonfire. 'Real amateurs, they were.'

  Haggard tilted his head to look up at the walls of the factory. The roof had just been completed, and it was all but ready. And someone had tried to burn it down.

  'Who are they?’

  'Well, sir . . .' MacGuinness stroked his chin. 'Wring?'

  Peter Wring scratched his head. 'I wouldn't like to say, Mr. Haggard.'

  'Who was watchman last night?'

  'Harry Crow. You come over here, Harry.'

  Crow was a large, slow-moving man. He blinked at the squire, uneasily.

  'You disturbed them, Crow,' Haggard said. 'You must have seen who they were.'

  'Well, sir, Mr. Haggard, it were mighty dark.'

  'But at least you can tell me how many there were?'

  'Well, sir, two or three. I couldn't be sure, they ran off that quick.'

  Haggard gazed at the man for a moment, then nodded. 'Very well. You may go home now.' He kicked the rubbish with his boot. 'Get rid of this mess, Wring.'

  'Right away, Mr. Haggard. Right away.'

  'It was a hopeless business from the start, Mr. Haggard,' MacGuinness said reassuringly. ' Tis too damp to burn, down here.'

  Haggard went inside the huge empty shed. It was a late September morning, and it had been a dry summer, yet MacGuinness was right, inside the factory smelt damp, and felt damp. He had deliberately built the mill in the next shallow valley to the coal mine, where the Derleth River came rushing down from the hills. This had always been wasted land. Now it was to be put to good use. Alice had said it would be impossible for anyone to work here in the winter, because of the damp and the cold. But Alice objected to everything he did, on principle. What really annoyed him was that she seemed to have enlisted the help of Johnnie, these past few months. But Johnnie's opposition was never prejudiced. He was always willing to listen, preferred to argue than merely to oppose.

  Anyway, the factory could hardly be any damper than the mine, and the men and children worked down there all winter. Rheumatism was a fact of life. And not only for the working class, he thought, as a twinge crept up his leg.

  'Aye,' he said. 'Damp. Derleth people, d'you suppose, MacGuinness?'

  'Well, sir, I wouldn't like to say, for sure.'

  'Come straight with me, man,.God damn it.' Haggard snapped, for the first time revealing the anger which was burning at his belly. 'You'd know if there were strangers in the valley. Three men? You'd know, MacGuinness.'

  'Yes, sir. There are no strangers in the valley. Leastways, none I've noticed.'

  'Derleth people,' Haggard said. 'Arson. There's a hanging offence, MacGuinness.'

  'Attempted arson, Mr. Haggard.'

  Transportation, at the least. You'll find them, MacGuinness. Mark me well. You find them.' 'Yes, sir, Mr. Haggard.'

  Haggard nodded, went outside, mounted his horse. Wring released the bridle, and the horse walked down the path, towards the mine. One of them? Haggard reined in, sat for some moments gazing at the steady activity, the pit ponies with their loads of coal, the surface workers humping the bags towards the barges, the bargees making sure the cargo was properly stowed, all shrouded in the miasmic dust which always hung over this hell on earth.

  Bargees. They came and went from the valley as they chose. MacGuinness would not notice them. Was he so reluctant to admit that three of his own people had turned against him? Cummings said there had been riots in Nottingham when the factory had been built there, and Nottingham was not so very far away. He almost smiled. He had spent the first half of his life preparing himself to meet a slave revolt which had never happened. Would it happen here in Derleth, in his twilight? Well, they'd find that Haggard was equally prepared to deal with that.

  He nodded to the foreman, walked his horse through the cut towards the Hall. But it might be a good idea to prepare. The machines were due to arrive in a few weeks' time. In Nottingham they had turned out the yeomanry. But that would mean sending to Derby, admitting to the entire county that Haggard could not handle his own affairs. There were enough men here, Wring and his friends, who would support him no matter what happened. Even against their own kin, if it came to that? He pinched his lip, dismounted, threw the reins to Ned.

  There are letters, sir.' Nugent waited for him at the top of the stairs, with the sil
ver salver. Haggard nodded, took the envelopes.

  is Mr. John in?

  'Why, no, sir. Mr. John went for a ride.' 'By himself?' 'Yes, sir.'

  As usual. Where the devil did he go, every day? He was becoming far too like his sister for comfort.

  Haggard went into the office, sat down. Nugent hastily appeared with the decanter, poured his master a glass of port.

  Haggard riffled through the envelopes. Most of them were the usual reports, from Cummings and from Ferguson. But there was one he did not recognise at all; it had been franked by the British Army Headquarters at Lisbon. He frowned, slit it open, took out the sheets of paper.

  My Dear Mr. Haggard,

  I hardly know where to begin a letter such as this, save to invite you to prepare yourself for a very great shock, but one which, I know, will bring much happiness in its wake.

  You will by now have heard of the check given by Sir Arthur Wellesley s army, of which I am proud to be a member, to the French under Marshal Victor on the field of Talavera last July. The victory, for such it was, as we remained in possession of the field, was not attended by the continuing success we had anticipated, as owing to the dilatoriness of our Spanish allies, and our own severe want of food and munitions, we were unable to march on Madrid, as we had intended, and indeed, as you will see from the address on this letter, have returned once again into Portugal to prepare ourselves for a winters defensive campaign. No doubt this is also familiar to you.

  But what you will not know, is that the division which I had the honour to command in the late battle was composed of the Kings German Legion, the 48th Foot, the Northamptons, and the 29th Foot, the Worcestershire Regiment. All of these soldiers covered themselves with glory in defending the key point in our line, the Cerro de Medillin, but none more so than a company sergeant major in the Worcesters, who boasted the name of Robert Smith, and who it appears has been a regular soldier since 1793. The significance of the above date will not be lost upon you.

  It was at the conclusion of the battle, when most gallantly trying to rescue some wounded men, French as well as British, from a fire which had sprung up on the plain below us, that Sergeant Major Smith was most treacherously set upon by a Frenchman, and himself badly hurt. I hasten to assure you, sir, that his wound is on the mend, and that he will soon be able to take his place once again with his comrades. But it was while wounded, and temporarily bereft of his senses, that he uttered words which astounded all those present, myself included, and which informed me that here was a man I had once been proud to call friend when we had both been subalterns together. Indeed, sir, I must now be straight with you, and tell you that this man is none other than your son Roger.

  Now you may understand some of the amazement and shock we all felt at this discovery. For, like you, we had supposed him dead, or at best an outlaw who had deserted his commission at the outset of this war. Now, sir, I cannot pretend to know what caused Roger to undertake so strange a course, but I do know that far from deserting the colours, he merely abandoned his commission and immediately re-enlisted as a private soldier. In fact, sir, he has campaigned more often and more successfully than anyone I know, as will be understood from his rise to the highest non-commissioned rank.

  The facts of the case were immediately conveyed to the Commanding General, as I was in any event duty bound to do. On the one hand we had a deserter, worthy only of a firing squad, and on the other a hero, worthy only of a medal and promotion. You will be as overjoyed as I was to learn that Sir Arthur has inclined towards the second view of the matter, and in order to regularise the situation, has issued a brevet commission as ensign to Mr. Roger Haggard.

  Now, sir, I come to the difficult part of this letter. The above transactions took place while your son was still grievously ill, and no one could be sure whether or not he would die. He has since recovered, as I say, and although he will not be fit for duty for some weeks, yet he anticipates being able to resume his career on this higher level. I would be misleading you did I not reveal that his immediate reaction to his exposure was one of alarm and dismay, but this has now been overcome. What has not been overcome, however, is his total refusal to communicate with yourself, or indeed to return to Derleth, as was suggested to him by Sir Arthur, during his period of convalescence. He has preferred, as you will have gathered, to remain in Lisbon.

  Now, sir, I repeat, I have no knowledge of the cause of Roger's original desertion, but the above forces me to suppose it was the result of a family difference. I have therefore taken it upon myself, quite without your son's knowledge, to write you this letter. I do not know in what regard you hold your son at this moment, nor do I see how it would be possible for you to meet him at this time, even supposing you wish to do so. On the other hand, this war must end eventually, and then we shall all be happy to come home. So, sir, I have placed you in possession of these facts, that you may decide for yourself your future course of action.

  Should you consider that circumstances would permit you to extend the love of a father towards your son, may I suggest that you write to him care of myself? In this way not only will you be sure your letter will reach its proper destination, but I will be able to act as your advocate should Roger continue to feel uncertain as to his next move. On the other hand, should you wish to leave matters as they are, I shall of course entirely understand.

  I trust you will pardon this intrusion into your private affairs and believe that it was motivated entirely out of admiration for your son.

  Yours faithfully,

  R. Hill. Major General.

  Haggard continued to stare at the paper for some moments, aware that his eyes were slowly filling with tears, that they were rolling down his cheeks and soaking his vest, that his heart was pounding and he was having difficulty in breathing. Slowly he got himself under control, drank some port, got up, went to the door.

  He wanted to shout, at his very loudest. He wanted to shriek the news to the world. Instead he climbed the stairs, still moving very slowly. 'Alice.'

  His voice echoed in the upper hall, and Mary Prince came out of the withdrawing room.

  'Mistress Alice is in the kitchens, Mr. Haggard.'

  Haggard nodded and turned away, but not before she had commenced to frown. But did it matter? Did anything matter? He went down the stairs.

  'Alice.'

  She looked up at him from the foot of the servants' staircase. Her head was enveloped in a gigantic mob cap, tied beneath her chin, and there was grease on her gown. She habitually betrayed her true origins by wishing to take part in the cooking herself.

  'Father? Whatever is the matter?'

  Haggard went closer, held out the letter.

  'Father?' Alice said again, staring at the tear-stained cheeks.

  'Read it.'

  She took the letter, frowned at it. Haggard watched her face changing expressions, from curiosity to interest to concern to delight. She raised her head.

  'Roger is alive,' Haggard said. 'And a hero.'

  'Oh, Father.' It was the very first time he had discovered warmth in her tone, since she had been a small child. 'Oh, Father.'

  She was in his arms, and he was hugging her close.

  'Roger is alive,' he said again. 'And a hero.'

  'You'll write him, Father. Say that you'll write to him.'

  'Write to him? Of course I shall write to him. This very day.' He gave her a last squeeze, released her as he heard the clip clop of hooves on the drive. He ran up the stairs like a boy, burst out of the door to greet Johnnie. 'Johnnie.' he shouted. 'Roger is alive. And a hero. Roger is alive. D'you hear, boy? Roger is alive.'

  Johnnie, cheeks flushed, no doubt from the wind, slowly dismounted, looked from his father to his stepsister.

  ‘It's true, Johnnie,' Alice said. 'Father has had a letter from Sir Rowland Hill. Roger is alive. He has been wounded, but he will be well. Think of it. He has been fighting the French all these years. All of your life.'

  'All of my life,' John Haggard
said slowly.

  Haggard threw his arm round his shoulder. 'A surprise,' he said. 'A shock. You'll not worry, lad. Roger is my heir. But you'll never want.'

  Johnnie flushed, ‘I had not thought of that, sir. I am too happy that he will be coming home. He will be coming home?' in time.'

  'Believe me, sir, I am too happy. Will he like me, do you suppose?'

  'Like you? He will love you, Johnnie.' Haggard released him, gazed up at this house. 'Roger is alive and well,' he shouted, unable to control himself any longer. 'Roger is alive and well.' He looked at his daughter, still framed in the doorway, watched her face break into a smile and then a laugh. He could not ever remember having seen Alice laugh before.

  'He will love you,' Alice said. 'Roger . . . why, he was the kindest, bravest, nicest boy I ever knew. You will never have met anyone like Roger. Why, he is like Father, with none of Father's sternness. You will love him, Johnnie.'

  'I have no doubt of it.'

  She studied his face. 'But you do not like the idea of giving up the major part of your inheritance.'

  He caught her hands. That has naught to do with it at all. My inheritance means nothing to me, Alice. Really and truly. I am just delighted to be able to give up the responsibility, of being the Haggard heir. Can you understand that?'

  She frowned at him. 'I suppose I can.'

  it means I am so much more free, to do anything I wish, without the fear of disgracing the name.'

  Her frown deepened. 'What an odd thing to say. How could you disgrace the name?'