Beat the Drums Slowly (23 page)

The major saw his wife only briefly. Esther rode with the baggage ahead of the battalion, helping and encouraging the wives. Most of the time she kept little Sal perched in front of her. The child said little. At one point Mrs MacAndrews trotted back to speak to her husband as he led the 106th. There was no privacy, and so their greeting was reserved and their conversation light and about little things. Sal said nothing at all, and flinched when the major reached out to pat her hand. The girl’s eyes were empty, but lit up with mingled excitement and fear when Esther MacAndrews set off again at a canter.

Esther returned twice more, and took the time to assure the married soldiers that their families were coping. On the final visit, she stopped again beside her husband. This time they said no words, and simply looked. Major MacAndrews reached up a hand and pressed her arm gently. For a while the cold did not seem so bad.

It was a long day, for the battalion covered twenty-two miles and stopped half a dozen times to form up with the rest of the Reserve Division and face the French whenever the latter pressed on the hussars. There was no fighting, but it all took time. They were still on the road long after it was dark, and one day and one year stretched into the next. Opinion was divided over when midnight fell, as none of the officers’ watches appeared to agree. At some point it became the first day of the New Year. Fatigue overcame any real enthusiasm.

At dawn the 106th saw a town ahead of them, the road running down through a steep ravine.

W
illiams slipped on a patch more ice than snow and only just broke his fall with his arms. Little Jacob began to cry, jerked from sleep by the sharp motion. Williams pushed himself upwards, almost sliding back again, before his worn boots found some grip. The baby’s cries were muffled by the thick greatcoat. The going had been treacherous for the last few hours, and Miss MacAndrews was unable to control the mare, maintain a secure seat and keep the infant warm and safe at the same time. In spite of this, she was most reluctant to give him charge of the boy. Jane had insisted on dismounting, leading the horse and clutching Jacob tightly to her, singing softly to him whenever he grew restless.

Miss MacAndrews was an active young woman, and under normal circumstances Williams would have admired her determination and pluck. Yet as they had climbed higher the snow had grown deeper. Her smooth-soled riding boots gave her poor footing. A shrivelled thorn bush, hidden in the snow, snagged the hem of her dress and tore it. Many brisk walks in more or less clement weather were no real preparation for days of travelling harder and faster than she had ever done before. The girl flagged, although it was some time before Williams could persuade her to admit any fatigue, and convince her that she must ride, at least for a while.

He took over the task of carrying the child, making his long crimson sash into a sling and wearing his greatcoat over the top. After a brief protest, Jacob accepted this new accommodation and dozed off. Now he was awake again, and as Williams opened his coat he saw the little face screwed up as the boy screamed.

‘May I have the milk?’ he called over the noise of the howling wind. Earlier in the day he had seen footprints like those of dog, only larger. He knew wolves were common in these hills, and hoped that the howling and other eerie sighs they heard were just flukes of the wind among the rocks. They saw seen no sign of human enemies, and that was a relief.

‘Really, Mr Williams,’ Jane shouted down to him, ‘a baby does not always cry because he is hungry.’

A raw scent grew prodigiously until Williams felt it was overwhelming him. He had to concede the wisdom of Miss MacAndrews’ statement.

‘I believe I may need a new sash after this.’ He cupped his hand to call to her. Jane smiled weakly. Snow began to fall, whipping around them in the gusts of wind. ‘We need some shelter.’ The girl nodded.

The baby was still crying. ‘Try singing to him,’ Miss MacAndrews suggested.

They trudged up the slope, Bobbie’s head down, but her stride sure footed, and Williams’ rendition of ‘The Minstrel Boy’ drifting on the wind. The top of the rise revealed a distressingly empty valley, but there was a line of human footprints running along the slope beneath them, and it seemed as good a plan as any to follow them. Fortunately the snow stopped and left the trail clear. After a mile they saw a stone cottage clinging to the slope most sheltered from the wind. Knocking on the door eventually prompted it to be drawn back wide enough for suspicious eyes to peer out at them. They belonged to a thick-bearded man wearing a faded red headscarf. His manner was brusque, but seeing in them no danger, he ushered them into his home with considerable dignity. As usual there was just one big room, filled with smoke from the central fire. Three goats occupied one corner, and the man, his wife and their four children – none of them older than seven – lived in the remainder. The visitors were given a patch of the floor beside the fire. The family’s meal, a greasy stew, heavy in oil and reeking of garlic, was shared.

It was a sign of his hunger that Williams bolted down the mixture quickly, his obvious enjoyment very pleasing to the wife, whose long, thin hair was grey, her skin heavily wrinkled even though she was barely in her middle twenties. She provided milk for young Jacob, and also heated water, and helped Jane as she bathed the child. It was clearly a process rarely undergone by her own offspring, and all sat and watched in silence, as if this was great entertainment. The husband talked cheerfully to Williams all the while, oblivious to the fact that his guest seldom replied, and indeed understood barely a tenth of the strongly accented words.

For a while Williams and Jane sat side by side, with their backs to the wall and their feet near the fire. Their host continued to speak at length of life in the hills. Jane cradled the baby in her arms. Williams could not quite remember when and how he placed his arm around the girl’s shoulders. Miss MacAndrews did not shy away, and indeed was soon leaning to him. He wondered whether he had ever before been so happy. They slept well that night, lying on straw with the baby between them. Jane had Williams’ blanket, while he used his greatcoat as covering.

The next day was better in every respect. The snow had stopped and as they continued along the valley, they were sheltered from all save occasional gusts of wind. At times the sun broke through the clouds, and although the glint off the snow was harsh, Williams as always was cheered by the brightness. Miss MacAndrews was reassured to once again have charge of the baby, for the going was good, and the one-eyed mare docile and happy to be moving after a night spent in the cold.

At times it seemed as if they had the world to themselves. Williams tried singing again when Jacob cried and would not be placated, and for a while his deep voice echoed along the valley. Surprise, fear or genuine pleasure quieted the child, who soon afterwards was feeding with every sign of contentment.

Much of the time they talked. Unusually, Miss MacAndrews spoke of her own life at some length. She told stories of growing up in garrisons in the West Indies and Canada, of the eccentricities of her parents, and the opulent life of her mother’s family in America.

‘The heat in Charleston is oppressive,’ she said. ‘One drinks iced water and tries to do as little as possible.’

‘It must be dreadful.’ Williams clapped his gloved hands together to bring some life back to his fingers.

‘And the winters in Nova Scotia would make this seem like a mild spring day.’ Her tone was flat.

‘Then perhaps we must consider ourselves fortunate.’ Williams tried to match her mock seriousness, as he watched the sparkle growing in her eyes.

‘Of course, in Canada you spend a lot of time next to a roaring fire, and venture out only when swathed in furs.’

‘I knew there would be catch,’ he said, and then they both burst out laughing, not stopping until Jacob began to cry. They talked no more until he was calm, and then, somewhat to her own surprise, Jane began to tell him of her dim memories of the brother and sister who had died when she was young, and the sorrow she knew dogged her parents over this loss, and that of an older brother who had succumbed to fever long before she was born.

‘Every year, at the beginning of May, Mama would be sad. She spoke less than usual, often remaining in the house for days on end, instead of busying herself with the life of the garrison.’ Williams found it hard to imagine the formidable Mrs MacAndrews being so subdued. ‘Father would be on edge, not quite understanding how she felt, but knowing that she was suffering, and knowing why, and doing everything he could to comfort her.

‘They did not snap at me, even though when I was very small I did not understand, and tried as a child to be more lively to make them happy. I was inclined to sing and dance,’ she said archly.

‘No doubt a delightful performance.’ Williams’ smile faded almost immediately. ‘You were little. It is hard for a child to understand. I can only dimly remember my father. He was big, but his voice was soft and his ways gentle. He always smelt of oil and his clothes were stained with grease.’ He smiled. ‘My mother complained all the time about the disreputable state of his handkerchiefs, saying that they were not fit for washing, but deserved to be burned.’ The smile faded. ‘I know I felt sadness when he died, but I doubt a child really understands.’

‘Or rather understands as a child?’ Jane nodded. ‘Sometimes I saw Mama weeping. Once I came into the room and she and father were embracing, each of them sobbing as they clung so tightly to each other that it was a wonder they could breathe.

‘I never saw anything so sad, or so frightening,’ she said.

Williams felt bold enough to hold the girl’s hand. ‘I never knew my mother to cry,’ he said.

Williams listened more than he spoke, but later Jane coaxed him to tell of his own family, of how the young widow raised four children. Jane asked him about his sisters, and he expressed a devout wish that one day she would be gracious enough to let him introduce them to her.

‘I shall look forward to making their acquaintance. If they resemble their brother, then I am sure that we shall be friends.’ On that more formal note, they lapsed into silence.

In the middle of the day they found shelter in a cluster of a dozen or so buildings around a tiny chapel. The people were wary, until the production of a few coins, and the encouragement of a priest who seemed to be the only well-fed person in the place, produced bread, cheese, a little wine, and milk for the baby. They sat at a table in the main room of the only substantial house in the place. Almost the entire population came to stare at them.

Williams tried conversing with the priest in his own fragile Latin and failed to get any response, apart from apparent agreement through nods and smiles to everything he said. Later, Jane was able to pick out enough words to hear the man explaining to his flock that England was a desperately cold country, next to Denmark, where God punished the Protestants who lived there with a vile climate and a people inclined to criminality. Several crossed themselves.

In the afternoon, their conversation was lighter. When they spoke of schooling, Miss MacAndrews joked about Thwackum and Square, and was pleasantly surprised when Williams recognised the allusion.

‘“His natural parts were not of the first rate, but he had greatly improved them by a learned education,” ’ quoted Williams. ‘Though clearly not to any great profit, as the contradictory views attributed to him make clear.’

For some time they discussed Fielding’s hero, the officer insisting on a degree of stern disapproval at the roughness of his virtue, while Miss MacAndrews defended Jones on the basis of his essentially good heart.

‘And at least from the beginning he shows finer feelings,’ she said. ‘How does it go? “… for though he did not always act rightly, yet he never did otherwise without feeling and suffering for it”. He may do wrong with Molly, but at least tries to set things right – and that to a woman who has deceived him, and been as much the cause of his ruin as her own.’

The situation of the poacher’s daughter was too close for his comfort to Jenny’s indiscretions with Redman and Hatch and perhaps other officers. It was a sad thought, and quickly followed by fear that the girl had walked away to her own death somewhere in the grim mountains.

Then Williams looked at Miss MacAndrews and saw her far more animated than for days. Talk of books was an escape from their own plight, and it was clearly doing her good. Frowning, he tried to think of a good answer.

‘Yet is it enough to make a hero fairly virtuous, winning our sympathies because those around him are worse? Should not the hero – or indeed the heroine – not have high qualities in his or her own right?’

‘That sets a high standard,’ came Jane’s swift response. ‘The hero must triumph over adversity, but surely it is no less a triumph if the obstacles come from his own weaknesses. Indeed, perfect virtue is less than inspiring. Or would you have every hero an Aeneas, who only comes to brief life when behaving in a blackguardly manner to poor Dido?’

The sudden shift to the classics chimed well with Williams’ taste and knowledge, and soon their discussion blossomed to consider more of the Ancients. Jane remained surprised at how familiar he was even with the poets, for his distaste for Ovid was based on a fair degree of acquaintance. She defended his poems for the richness and beauty of the language, as much for the sake of argument as from any firm commitment. Like their controversies, this was keenly fought, but always with goodwill, and indeed with much laughter.