Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  Victoria was traveling with her husband, so there would be other sons, without doubt. As to the rest, he would stay in his regiment and lead the men who respected and trusted him — and he would still be there at the head of them when they returned to England victorious. That he surely knew. Life as he had lived it for the past twenty-eight years was over. He had written to his “parents,” thanking them for all they had done and explaining why he must say goodbye. From now on he was a man on his own, a man dedicated to his profession. The future was his to decide, and his blood ran young and eager at the prospect.

  Five days later he received word that the regiment would embark at eleven the following morning and promptly set his men on a frenzy of cleaning and polishing. He had heard that the people of the city had turned out every day in the hope of seeing these renowned horsemen pass through, so they must look their grandest. To a naval port, the sight of cavalry in full uniform was virtually unknown and bound to cause a great deal of excitement.

  Even knowing this, Hugo was unprepared for the hysterical outburst of patriotic pride that greeted them as soon as they passed the city boundary. The road from Cosham to the dockyard — a matter of some five or six miles — was lined on both sides with citizens, from babes in arms to nonagenarians, who would go to their Maker knowing they had witnessed one of the finest sights an Englishman could see.

  It was a balmy spring day, with the blue clarity of sky over sea, as Hugo rode at the head of his men, aware only of worn, wrinkled faces; hard features full of the forced cunning brought about by poverty; sweet young girls with a beauty that struggled against a consumptive pallor; grubby children with noses that needed wiping and half their breakfast clinging to their mouths; old men with the glaze of reminiscence bringing youth back for a while — all united in this carnival moment that brought color, spectacle, release from grinding tedium and pride in a country that had done nothing much for them except keep them free.

  Halfway to their destination, the cavalry squadron was met by the full band of the 44th — or was it the 54th? — Foot, and the crowd was treated to the sight of meticulous regimental maneuvering while the Hussars halted to allow the band to reform in the opposite direction in order to lead the cavalrymen in style.

  They set off again, with the delirium rising to fever pitch. The sun shone down, striking off the gleaming instruments in dazzling flashes; highlighting the gold braiding, badges and buttons on the soldiers’ uniforms; catching the subtler glints of harness, spurs, accouterments and chain straps beneath sturdy chins; and glossing the horses’ coats as they rippled over the animals’ muscles. It shone on the scarlet infantry jackets crossed with white pipe-clayed straps; on the white gloves, blue overalls and shining black boots; on the leopard skins worn by the drummers; and on the scarlet tassels attached to the trumpets. It enhanced the blue Hussar jackets and slung pelisses smothered in gold lacing; the leopard skin saddle cloths and scarlet-and-gold embroidered shabraques; it showed to advantage the polished horse leathers, black riding boots, decorated sabretaches, engraved scabbards, white gauntlets and black fur busbies with scarlet bag and tall plume.

  As if that feast of color were not enough there was the sound of martial trumpets, the thud of drums, the tramp of boots, the jingle of harness and the squeak of leather saddles as the horses clopped along the city streets, immune to the racket and din around them, carrying mustachioed warriors who looked proud, invincible and completely fearless.

  The crowds thickened. The flags, emblems and even shawls and aprons waving in the air appeared to Hugo a sea of rippling cloth that blotted out the faces. The volume of cheering increased as the band broke into “The Girl I Left Behind Me,” and women began leaving the crowd to run beside the troopers, holding out flowers, mascots, bottled beer — even pies. They were laughing, crying, pulling at the men’s legs, catching at the reins.

  Some boasted their trade with laughing invitations to provide a last hour of comfort before they sailed; there were tearful mothers who saw their own sons in these sons of England; and there were young girls wanting to touch these dream men in glittering uniforms who suggested strength, courage and an indefinable quality they would never find in the drunken louts who inhabited their lives. Some knelt in prayer as they passed, others threw blossoms at their feet, a few looked with a hunger that stilled their bodies and chilled their hearts. These husbands, sweethearts, sons were going to war and might never return.

  Hugo had begun by being cynical. It was well known that the British soldier was despised by everyone, regarded as the lowest of the low; yet now he was being feted as the hero of the hour, the savior of the country — which he had always been. But as they progressed, even he felt a lump in his throat and the thump of pride in his heartbeat. His squadron looked immaculate, they rode like ramrods in their saddles, and when he gave the order to present swords in salute to the city dignitaries outside the dockyard gates they performed the drill as one man.

  Police were out in force to hold back the crowd surrounding the gates, but just as they were passing through, a slender girl in brown dress and shawl broke through the cordon and threw herself beneath the hooves of the front rank of the squadron. Hugo registered a vague impression of a white face beneath dark hair as he passed, then a cry went up and the column behind him wavered.

  Turning in his saddle, he saw one of his men jumping from his horse and running to the two policemen lifting the girl clear of the road.

  “Sergeant, get that man back on his horse this minute,” he said furiously and halted the squadron.

  Sergeant Cairns wheeled and rode back to the group of which the trooper had formed one but appeared to have no success in retrieving him. Hugo cursed roundly. Was their grand march to be ruined right at the last? He would have the culprit flogged for insubordination, he resolved, turning Monty and trotting up to the scene of the trouble. At close quarters he saw that it was Trooper Pitchley, a young hardworking soldier, who looked as white and ill as the girl.

  “For God’s sake, has Pitchley taken leave of his senses?” he asked in a low voice.

  The sergeant looked up at his officer with a wooden expression. “It’s ’is wife, sir.”

  “The devil take her,” breathed Hugo and edged his horse toward one of the policemen. “Constable, would you kindly escort the young woman to the jetty? I will take up the matter there.” He swung his eyes round to the trooper. “Remount at once, Pitchley!”

  During the short ride to the jetty Hugo had time to guess the situation, but it did not alter his angry expression nor sweeten his tongue when Pitchley was brought before him.

  “I’m sorry, sir, and that’s the truth, but it was more than flesh and blood could stand. She’s my wife, sir.”

  “So I believe. What is she doing here?”

  “I give my oath, I don’t know, Captain Esterly.” It burst from him with uncontrolled heat as his face flared with color. “She walked from Brighton behind us, but I said goodbye to her last night. She must’ve come in behind the column today.” Suddenly he seemed to crumble and his face worked convulsively. “As God’s my witness, I never thought she’d try to do away with herself. What am I going to do?”

  Hugo took a deep breath. “Has she absolutely nowhere to go?”

  Pitchley shook his head, tears sliding down his cheeks. Next minute he was sobbing like a girl. Hugo sighed and cursed young fellows of eighteen who saddled themselves with a wife. This boy had probably seduced some scullery maid, then felt honor-bound to do the right thing by her. The girl’s parents had most likely thrown her out for disgracing the family by marrying a shilling-a-day man, and here they were in this fix.

  Instructing the man to stay where he was, Hugo walked across to where the constable had deposited the girl on a seat.

  “She looks werry ill, sir,” said the policeman, who had daughters of his own. “That man of yours ought not to go orf and leave ’er like this.”

  “He has no choice. He is a soldier,” Hugo snapped. “In
the service of his country he is expected to do many inhumane things. It is a pity the public is not more aware of the fact.”

  “Yes, sir.” The policeman’s voice was small. This gent looked ready to make mincemeat of anyone who ventured to criticize his fancy soldiers, and he was twice his own size in heavy riding boots and tall plumed hat. “Well, I’ll be getting about me duty. You did say as ’ow you’d deal with this, me Lord,” he added for safety’s sake. “Good day to you, I’m sure.” He rolled away with his official gait, hoping he gave an impression of competent nonchalance.

  Hugo looked at the girl. She could not be more than sixteen, and something about her large eyes and smooth dark hair stirred him. He had intended giving her a piece of his mind but said merely, “Are you feeling better now?” She nodded sullenly.

  “You have rendered your husband liable for punishment, you know.” She made no comment, and he added angrily, “If you had wanted to kill yourself before his eyes you should have waited until we were at the gallop.”

  Her head came up. “You never went at the gallop.”

  He stood there, considering. They were already loading the men and horses. There was no time for arrangements of any kind.

  “Mrs. Pitchley, are you expecting a child?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  “On my word of honor, sir.”

  He made up his mind. “Come with me, then.”

  Ten minutes later the last file of Captain Esterly’s squadron went up the gangplank with one extra in their midst, while their commander engaged the quartermaster in deep conversation at the top.

  When the coast was clear Hugo strolled along the deck to watch the loading of his own horses and felt immensely sorry for the beasts as they were swung up from the jetty by a sling under their bellies. They dangled helplessly as they were brought up and over, to be lowered into the hold where well-padded temporary stalls had been fitted for the journey. From the language floating up from the hold he deduced that the animals were reluctant to settle in their new quarters. He felt sympathy with them. Every time he stepped onto the deck of a ship his stomach protested, and it was a shrewd guess that it was Charles’s knowledge of his debilitating aversion to the motion of a ship — worse now than ever, since the accident at Chokham — that had governed the allocation of his own cabin in this transport. As he went below he felt the same dread and reluctance as the horses and prayed for a calm and speedy voyage.

  Three hours later the ship was ready to move out of Portsmouth harbor, but just before the gangplank was pulled up, a dark-haired young woman in brown was carried screaming and kicking down onto the jetty. She had been found on board without a pass and ordered off. Her distracted husband insisted Captain Esterly had given his permission, but a token search of the ship had not located that officer, and the quartermaster was not taking instructions from any horse soldier on his own ship. Trooper Pitchley had to be put under restraint as the wooden ship drew away from shore with an ever-increasing gap and set course for Spithead, where she was to anchor until morning.

  Those watching in great crowds from privileged positions in the dockyard, and the citizens who had fought and scrambled for a place on the pier to watch the vessels pass through the mouth of the harbor, thought it a magnificent spectacle. The strains of a military band floated back to them across the water, and many a tear-filled eye saw a glimpse of Hussar blue that could have been a loved one waving a last farewell.

  Maria Pitchley saw her husband’s ship depart with a great cry inside her. She had nowhere to go, and the prospect of getting work with the baby inside her was very faint. The little bit of money Ted had pressed on her last night would not last more than a week or two. The long walk from Brighton and the events of the day had left her very tired, and it was blowing up cold. It would get colder as night wore on.

  As the great wooden ship glided past looking so near, she knew she should have been on it, and the memory of Ted’s face as she had been carried from the ship started the tears sliding down her cheeks. Then, like a match being set to gunpowder, a fierce and terrible determination exploded inside her. England had taken away her man; she would see the old country gave her a living in return. She was strong and knew how to wheedle when she had to. That officer nob had been taken in completely. What she could do once she would do again.

  After five minutes the ship was showing her stern; after ten she looked a lot smaller. When she was no more than a tiny model in the distance the girl stopped watching and turned away to face the world with a firm set to her mouth.

  Chapter Eight

  As the only lady aboard the Sirocco, apart from the women of the regiment who were somewhere in the bowels of the ship safely out of the way, Victoria was smothered with flattery and warm attention from the moment they slipped from Portsmouth harbor. The troopers, who already loved her, spread the word to the seamen, who were superstitious over women on board, and they declared their willingness to adopt her also. The ship’s officers had no need of persuasion; they knew a raving beauty when they saw one. In consequence, wherever she moved about the decks Victoria met with smiles and offers of assistance and was amused at finding it necessary to fend off the approaches of the free-and-easy seafaring officers, who were experts at instant and short-lived flirtations.

  Not the least of these was the captain of the Sirocco, Byron Porchester, who fell an immediate victim to expressive brown eyes and mobile features, finding as Charles had that Victoria’s youthful charm was a challenge to his approaching middle age. So it was that at dinner that first night while anchored at Spithead, she found herself being entertained by bright-eyed young men contesting for the attention of their female companion.

  There was one exception. Hugo, pale and unusually reserved, said no more than good evening to her and retired early. Though Victoria knew that their relations had to be formal, she felt the evening ended with his departure. She was unprepared for what followed.

  Captain Porchester nodded at the closing door. “That is a very serious young man, Major. He is going to need a sense of humor in the days to come.”

  Charles smiled. “A sense of humor will not help him, sir, and I doubt you will see him on his feet again until we reach port. I understand his baggage contains arrowroot, a vinaigrette and a basin. From the look of him tonight I would say his knees are already growing weak — and we are still at anchor.”

  A hoot of laughter greeted this and increased when Charles added, “Believe it or not, his father was a naval commander.”

  Victoria left the gentlemen to their cigars and retired to the cabin she must share with Charles. It was minute, walled with miniature compartments and so low Charles had to bend his head to avoid the beamed ceiling. It smelled of tar, tobacco and stale air — hardly an attractive place in the pale light from a swinging lantern. Although they were at anchor, the strong currents around the Isle of Wight were heaving the ship in slow but steady undulations.

  Sitting outside the door was Zarina Stokes, waiting to render assistance to the mistress who had enabled her to travel with the regiment. Victoria felt fresh amazement as the girl followed her into the cabin, for Zarina was quite unlike any soldier’s wife she had ever met. How well she now understood Hugo’s laughing comment that she would understand Stokes’s marriage when she set eyes on the elephant girl.

  The glamour of the big top walked with the girl; it was there in the beautifully dressed chestnut hair, the slanted green eyes and the gilt of pendulum earrings that were put through her lobes in the way of gypsies. She walked spread footed, with her body curved forward and head held high. The brightly colored clothes she favored fit her opulent shape with not an inch to spare. At first sight Victoria could hardly believe Stokes could have persuaded such a creature to show the slightest interest in him, but once the interview had begun it was plain that a circus upbringing had stamped the sophisticated veneer upon a gentle, orphaned girl who had longed for someone of her own on whom to lean
.

  Strangely enough, Charles had been amused by her, and any anger Victoria thought he might have felt at her employment of the wife of Hugo’s servant was banished by his definitely rakish manner toward the girl. In any event, Zarina was the ideal girl for a campaign. A compulsion to address Victoria as “missus” instead of “ma’am” and a complete lack of a lady’s maid’s finesse were outweighed by her ability to dress and arrange hair in a matter of minutes — a relic of performers’ quick changes. Add to that the girl’s shining gratitude to her employers, and the Stanfords had hired the perfect servant.

  In no time, Victoria was in her nightgown, the russet silk gown and hooped petticoats hung above the inadequate locker and everything tidied away.

  “Good night, missus,” Zarina said, stepping out of the cabin in her vivid emerald-green dress as if the gangway outside contained an audience waiting for her entrance.

  Victoria was left alone in the tiny cabin. How alien the sight, sound and smell of everything around her. How far away were all the shadows of the past. The lantern swinging above her head filled her with excitement. Aunt Sophy had told her to fulfill her need to make something of her life, and this was the first step upon the path. The cabin was cramped and the bed unsprung and uncomfortable, but she must be prepared for some discomforts. An army on the move had no luxuries.

  Constantinople! The very sound of their destination thrilled her — minarets, exotic trees and oriental spices. She could not wait to arrive. The Russians were confronting the Turks of Silestria, and the British were hastening to the Black Sea to provide the show of strength that would make the Russians back off. Everyone predicted a return to England by Christmas, but Victoria was determined to gain the greatest value from this expedition. It would be over in a few months, and she might never have the chance of such an adventure again.