by Don Jacobson
If I could view him undraped, I imagine he would look like one of those marbles Lord Elgin brought back from Greece. His legs rise from those boot tops like the columns in front of St. Paul’s. Leather and waxy lemon—that is his aroma. It wraps around me. So comforting. Oh my…
Wilson raised an eyebrow as he caught Annie’s sudden intake of breath and the beautiful rosy hue that suffused her neck and cheeks. But he said nothing, rather deepening his breathing and steeling his expression to regulate his emotions in spite of the clearly recognizable stirring in his abdomen.
Look at her. She tends to the child with a care that goes beyond employment. She loves little ones. And every pleat and tuck of her frock is freshly molded to a figure that promises beauties untold. What I would give to be free to reach out and tuck back that errant curl escaping from its pin.
Henry stepped to the door and opened it, nodding to the on-duty Winters as he passed. The other footman barely acknowledged him, but narrowed his eyes as Miss Bennet and Margaret moved by.
The brisk November wind chased tiny dust devils across Hyde Park’s packed sand tracks. Wilson’s Cecil House greatcoat insulated him from any chill. Then again, this was London in early November…not the Hebrides. City folk in the southernly capital had thin blood. If the winds of November came early[xviii], it would mean something up North in Derby or Edinburgh, but not here.
Throughout his years in the Army, Wilson had alternately cursed and blessed the Quartermaster General for dictating that all uniforms be of wool. Summers in the Peninsula were brutally hot. Winters in the Iberian mountains were so cold that even the massive greatcoat that was part of every soldier’s kit did little to cut the fierce cold.
That awful January when poor Sir John evacuated the Army from Corunna[xix] and Vigo; if the men stopped moving, they froze where they sat. Units that became separated from the main body just vanished into the drifting snow. There was no food. The wounded froze in their wagons, so we dumped the corpses to break up the carts for wood to start fires and try and warm ourselves. But, how much warmth can you find with five or six barely flickering faggots surrounded by 20 anxious men? I never thought I would be warm again.
He shivered as the memories flooded through and slammed against his conscious mind. The uneasiness that often preceded one of his spells grew more powerful. He fought to keep focused on the young woman and her smaller charge about ten feet in front of him. But the fog kept rushing in from the edges of his vision.
In his struggles, Wilson was unaware of hulking figure advancing behind him. Even if he had been, he likely would not have noticed the belaying pin the rough man stealthily held against his body.
Wadkins—he had only been known as that from his earliest days at the brothel he had called home after his mother had died of the pox—watched the giant footman as the mort and the babe neared the cross path that was his marker. The master had specifically told him that the servant needed to be brought down just as the woman and girl were diverted by something—what that something was to be Wadkins did not know. Then he had to deal with the footman, grab the kid and make for the coach over on the Drive. The man in the black cloak had already paid him a guinea—most of which had gone for cheap whiskey, a step up from his usual home-brewed gin—and promised another when he delivered the child. So he readied the 20 inch oak shaft which he would use to snuff out the footman’s lights.
He had been tailing the little party for the previous three days to get a picture of their habits. Even though he was shabbily dressed, Wadkins was not really out-of-place as the Park was open to all and was a popular shortcut for working people running errands or scuttling to their jobs in the shops which served the great houses which lined the park.
He had varied his look as best he could—carrying a sack of old clothes one day, digging into that parcel to pull on a different coat the next. He never followed the same path either. Today he needed to approach from behind, but yesterday he came at them from the front only to loop around to tail them along the Serpentine. He knew their routine and was confident he would carry off his part in the grab when it came.
And that would be in the next few moments.
A sudden frosty blast snapped sand across Henry’s face. Blinded for a moment, he was startled when someone lit off a string of Chinese snappers sounding like the rattle of muskets. In a flash he was back there…
“Wilson…come on Wilson. Ya can’t jis lay there. You’ll freeze.”
“Charlie, Charlie Tomkins? You are dead, man. I saw you die!”
“Cor ‘enry. Ya be jokin’ me now. T’aint dead yet, tho ah gotta say that it ‘as been a near run thing. Jist ye and me now is all whuts left o’ tha platoon. So’s ya bettah get movin’ cuz I t’aint gon’ta let ya die cuz then I be havin’ to talk ta meself.”
So snowy and cold. He moved, but with leaden feet. Why are there bees buzzing around our heads in the dead of winter? Got to stay low. Do not want to get stung, now that I found Charlie. I could have sworn I saw him turned into red rags at Waterloo.
Oh, this is not Waterloo. This is Corunna. Waterloo will not happen for another six years. Tomkins is alive…here…now.
Charlie grabbed him and dragged him behind a rock at the roadside. The ground shook as three French Heavy Cavalry thundered past. Wilson made to rise, but Tomkins yanked him down.
“Wait, one more comin’…but ‘e’s slow. ‘orse must be lame.”
Sure enough, just as Tomkins said, a lone figure leading, no, nearly dragging, his terribly lame mount materialized out of the white-swept gloom. The Frenchman came up next to them and then slightly past.
Wilson turned to Tomkins and breathed, “I will take him. You grab the horse.”
Barely visible under the mantle of his ice-encrusted great coat, Wilson crept up behind the unfortunate dragoon, a young man, perhaps recent to his regiment if his relatively new uniform and boots were any indication. His moustaches drooped under the weight of the ice deposited by his breathing, soon to be stopped.
Striking like a cobra, Wilson clamped his left hand across the soldier’s mouth, jerking his head back. With his right, he drove his naval dirk into the man’s back, straight through a kidney and up into his heart. A garlic-scented last breath left in a great sigh and dead weight settled into Wilson’s arms. He dragged the burden off the path and into the brush. Tomkins grabbed the reins from the corpse’s hand.
By the time he had led the animal behind their rocky shelter, Wilson was already pulling the dragoon’s high boots off unmoving legs.
“Been waiting to find us a heavy, Charlie. Thank God old Boney wants his horsemen to be big boys. The better to scare us, eh? But, they are the only ones with feet big enough to suit my needs. He is just my size! Been walking on the Captain’s old copies of the Times for three weeks now.”
Glory be, the boy’s family must be a rich bunch. He has silk stockings on under the wool ones.
Wilson quickly stripped off the hose and pulled them on. In a moment his legs were encased in supple French leather.
He grabbed the youngster’s sabretache and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he patted down the pockets and removed a notebook and a few letters that he stuffed into a pocket for later use as tinder. In a deep pocket of the man’s blood-soaked great coat he found a few gold pieces and a pocket flask with the French Imperial Eagle soldered to the side. Shook it. Half full. Unscrewed the top and poured liquid fire down his throat. The good stuff!
Charlie got the horse, so the saddlebags are his to clean out.
He grunted at Charlie and waved the flask at him. Charlie reached over and took a swig. His grimace of happiness told the entire story.
Charlie hunkered down next to him and launched into a soliloquy.
“’orse is no good. Prolly got a broke cannon bone. And, we are getting’ close to bein’ in pretty deep water. Dark comin’ soon. Gon’ta be even colder than yes’tiddy.
>
“No wood. No fire. C’aint do a fire anyways. Crapauds would smell it an’ be on us like lint. Only one thing we kin do. Me da tol’ me of an ol’ poacher who got caught out in a Nor’amptonshire blizzard.
“’e took the big buck ‘e’d kilt and cut it open an’ pulled out the guts an’ crawled inside. Damn near got trapped when the cut froze shut. But, he pushed his way out an’ lived ‘til they ‘ung ‘im for poachin’.
“Magistrate cackled sumthin’ ‘bout poetic justice ‘bout being both saved and kilt by the same buck.
“Anyways, ‘enry, thas whut we ‘r gon’ta do. Kill the ‘orse. Gut ‘im and live.”
Chapter X
Wadkins watched with amazement as the footman stopped walking, threw his hands up to his face and then slowly crumpled to the ground. The noise of fireworks echoed across the park and buried the low moan issuing from the burgundy-clad man. Slowly he curled up and began shaking like some palsied old cove.
One problem out of the way. He tucked the belaying pin away and stepped past the prostrate figure, closing the gap to the young woman and little girl.
Suddenly, the pair stopped as a street boy accosted them.
“Penny for the Guy, Miss? Penny for the Guy?” the scruffy boy begged.
His target stopped, forcing her minder to do likewise.
“Oh, please Miss Bennet, may we give him a coin? Please? Oh, please!” the little girl asked her governess who quietly agreed and then released the child’s hand to dig into her reticule for the needed coin.
Now!
Wadkins started running, and in a few seconds had slammed his shoulder into the young woman’s back, knocking her away from the girl. Reaching down, he grabbed the well-dressed child and bundled her under his right arm.
She screamed…high pitched and ear-shattering. Wadkins started to lope toward the park entrance where he saw the carriage waiting with the black-cloaked master standing beside an open door. But the little mite would not keep still. She squirmed so much he had to break stride and nearly stop to re-position the load.
And that was when he was charged from behind.
“No…you cannot…have…her!”
Suddenly all the wildcats in the world landed on his back spitting and clawing, ripping at his face with sharp talons. The pain was incredible. Without thinking he released the child to deal with this more immediate and maddening threat.
“Run, Margaret. Run. Go. Go. Go. Do not stop!”
Roaring, Wadkins acted from the muscle memory learned through decades of street fights and barroom brawls. He reached up behind his head and grabbed two handfuls of hair just as the banshee ripped his right earring from its tender anchor. Blind with pain and fury he flipped the wild woman…yes it was that governess…over his head and onto the walkway in front of him.
She landed flat on her back with a loud thud, knocking the wind out of her. She stared up at him with a defiant glare piercing him from those brilliant blue eyes…daring him…
So he obliged her.
He quickly lifted one well-muscled leg and stomped down on her chest and shielding arm. Her eyes squinted shut in agony as he heard her ribs and arm crack.
Off to his left he heard the crunch of booted feet running on the strand. He did not care. This woman hurt him. He pulled a booted foot back and as his leg whistled forward and the toe connected with the side of her head, he heard a loud bang.
Then an immense weight slammed into the side of his skull plunging everything into a darkness that almost as quickly vanished as he slid off this plane to answer for crimes both old and new.
The cloaked stranger spun away in a swirl of red silk lining and slammed the door to his carriage.
The gunfire died away…Warm…so warm again.
The sand dug into his cheek as he lay on the path. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. Pushing himself up, he gradually gained his feet and looked around for Miss Bennet and Miss Margaret. About 30 feet off he saw a crowd gathering around something lying in the path, a huddled pile.
Oh God…No!
A man he recognized as General Fitzwilliam finished running toward the group and, reaching down, pulled a larger bulk off a smaller. Wilson pulled closer and, looking over the heads of those in front of him, recognized Miss Bennet’s shoes and gown. He could not see her face, but he knew it could not be good just by the way the General knelt down. Miss Margaret burrowed through the legs of the passers-by who stopped to gape at the scene.
Fitzwilliam spoke gently to the child. Then he draped his handkerchief over the left side of Miss Bennet’s face.
Not over her entire face. So not dead, but terribly hurt, so much so that he had to shield little Margaret from the vision.
Then in a quavering voice, young Miss Cecil began to sing the refrain that all of Great Britain knew so well.
“’Neath the boughs of Hougoumont’s trees, George Wickham saved us all,”[xx]
Suddenly the General speared Henry with his eyes. Fitzwilliam scanned him from head to toe, noticing that sand and leaves were ground into the left side of the man’s uniform.
Hmmm…no time to ask and be answered. Something beyond normal laggard behavior happened here. We will figure it out later.
“You there. Yes, you, Cecil House footman! Come here immediately. I will need your back to help get this lady home.” Henry’s insides turned to water.
Time enough to think about what-might-have-been later. Miss Bennet’s blood is on my hands, but I will not let her die because I was slow to help.
Breaking through the mass of people, he came to a halt across from Richard and snapped to attention.
“General, sir, Henry Wilson, sergeant, formerly 33rd Infantry. I am sorry that I allowed this to happen. My attention wandered for a moment. There is no excuse. What do you require?”
“Take my coat and spread it out on the ground. Miss Bennet is a small woman and will fit nicely on it. We will place her inside the coat and then picking up the four corners, we will use it as a litter to carry her back to Cecil House. Are you clear on what we need to do?” Wilson nodded.
The General swiftly pulled two gentlemen volunteers from the crowd and the little party began its trek back to Cecil House.
Chapter XI
Annie first learned that something was horribly amiss when a breathless Sarah found her in Miss Bennet’s chamber folding some of the young lady’s small clothes fresh from the laundry.
“Oi, Annie. C’mon wit’ me. Sumthin’ ‘as ‘appened to your Mistress!”
The thought that Margaret was somehow injured spurred Annie into action. She dropped what she was doing and dashed from Miss Bennet’s chamber, leaving Sarah in her wake. Crossing the hallway, she threw open the door to the child’s room and swept the drapes closed and stoked the fire.
Sarah looked at her, astonished.
“Whut do ya think yer doin’?” she quizzed.
“Well, I need to get the room in order so we can get the girl to bed. Do you know if Dr. Campbell has been summoned? Oh, she may need a bath. She could be chilled from the weather. Sarah, can you go downstairs and get water heating,” Annie raced on.
“No, no, Annie. Miss Margaret t’is fine, I think. She will need a bath, sure. But t’is Miss Bennet t’is ‘urt. And t’is bad from whut I ‘eard young Mikey say. ‘e said blood everywhere.”
Annie froze in place, her eyes widening in fear and worry.
Miss Bennet? That sweet lady? Blood everywhere? What happened? Did she get run over by a coach? Kicked by a horse? Those young hellions racing on Rotten Row!
Her stomach in knots, she ran back into Miss Bennet’s chamber and started clearing away the laundry. She looked over her shoulder at her friend and called out, “Sarah, please get fresh linens and change the bed. If Miss Bennet is hurt sore bad, she will be abed for several days or more.
“Might as well start with clean sheets. In my experience, we will be called on to change them often. Oh, put down that special
sheet from the nursery, you know the one that has been soaked in India Rubber.
“I am going to head downstairs now. Come down as soon as you are finished. Until we know more, let us assume that it is ‘all hands on deck’.”
Annie exited from the servant’s door into the front hall in time to observe Lady Mary fly down the front stairs without either bonnet or coat. The distraught mother clasped her little daughter to her and then held Margaret out at arm’s length to inspect her, counting limbs and fingers, seeking assurances that all was well.
From Annie’s vantage point at the top of the front stairs, she watched the four men slowly moving as they gently transported their burden in an overcoat stretcher. They looked like pallbearers, so grim were their countenances. She could identify General Fitzwilliam wearing shirtsleeves. Henry was also recognizable as the party crossed the cobbles in front of the house. However, he looked a fright! His normally fastidious great coat was smudged with dirt and debris. His face was filthy and also was covered in small scratches.
She could not see Miss Bennet, bundled as she was in the greatcoat being used to carry her. All Annie could discern of her lady were two small boot-clad feet dangling just over the bottom edge of the makeshift litter. They were limp and betrayed no conscious control, flopping from side to side with each shuffling step taken by the men. Tears pricked at Annie’s eyes as she took in the pitiful sight.
Sarah came up next to her, breathing heavily from running down three flights. Annie pushed her forward whispering, “Go to Lady Mary and Miss Margaret. Get the child upstairs and into that tub. Do not leave her side. She will be terrified from whatever happened and will need a friendly face.” Sarah nodded and stepped down to stand beside mother and child. The maid and Margaret were quickly dispatched back indoors.
