Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  “Wait, Tom! Let me … “ she fumbled with the ribbons at the back of her bodice, suddenly wanting to be out of her dress completely, to give him exactly what she had denied the dragoon, but the ribbons on her dress were too tightly tied and Tom misunderstood. He forced her dress up higher, so that for a moment a fold of the brown cloth came over her head and she had to fight to push it down so she could breathe. She felt him fumbling with his own clothes and the scratch of his belt buckle on her thigh as he pulled his breeches down. He looked at her, his face flushed and urgent, and she thought he would kiss her first and lifted her face to be kissed.

  “Yes, Tom, yes!” she said, glorying in the strength she had released, but he was too preoccupied to kiss her. His arm and knee forced her legs up and apart and then she felt a sudden hot tearing pain between her legs, again and again as he thrust himself in and out, his breath coming in great hot gasps through the lips pressed against her neck. She cried out with the pain and tried to arch her back and force him off, but his great weight pressed her down, her arms and legs pushed helplessly aside. He rammed himself hard up into her and shuddered and she cried out again as his back arched and he drew in breath in a huge, moaning gasp. Then he slumped down on top of her and she lay limp, crushed under his bulk, staring up at the pattern of the leaves against the sky, her hands clutching the cloth of the shirt on his back as she drew breath and felt the first long sob well up inside her.

  After a while he stirred, and lifted his head to look at her. His face was flushed and heavy, but not cruel. He bent to kiss her, but she turned her head away, feeling the tears trickle off her nose. He kissed her anyway and sat up, heaving at his trousers. She let her bare legs flop uselessly to the ground and pushed some of the skirt down between her legs where the pain was.

  He turned to look at her and she hunched away from him on her side, weeping, her arm over her face. He dragged at her skirt.

  “Come on, pull it down. Someone might come.”

  “Let them! I don’t care!”

  “But what are you crying for. It was you who wanted it!”

  “Not like this.” She took her arm away from her face and glared at him in fury. He looked a little irritated, but under that, proud – pleased with himself!

  “You hurt me!”

  “It always hurts for women, first time. That’s why you’re bleeding - look.” He pulled her skirt up again. She flinched, then sat up and stared at the wet blood on her thighs.

  “You’d better clean yourself up.” He got up, walked over to the fallen tree, and sat down on it quietly with his back to her.

  “You ...!” But she was too shocked to think of a word. She stared at his back for nearly a minute, watching the picture slowly blur as the tears returned. She shook them away and tore up handfuls of grass to wipe her legs. Then she made a pad of leaves to stop the rest of the bleeding, wincing as she touched herself. She did it hurriedly, suddenly afraid that someone might come, and take Tom’s side as the soldiers in Chard had taken the dragoons’. There was blood on the hem of her skirt; she rubbed it frantically with mud to hide it. No-one must know about this. But what would happen if the bleeding did not stop? Who could she go to for help?

  “Are you clean?” He turned and looked at her when she did not answer. She stared back at him, not moving. This is the end of childhood, she thought. She had led him into the wood as she had always led him, when they were children. Now she was a woman, and she had lost control. He stared at her like a stranger, and she did not know what to do.

  A pheasant called in the wood, and the distant church clock of Frome chimed the half-hour.

  “We’d better get back,” he said. “There’s muster at nine o’clock.”

  She followed him out of the glade and back to the path. Twice he held back branches for her, but they did not touch. She had stopped crying, and tried to hold her head up high, to salvage something from the mess; but his eyes, like his body, avoided hers, and the look of pride in his face began to darken to guilt. He did not speak to her, and as they came nearer the town, she looked down at the ground, absorbed in her own sense of shame and failure. When at last they had to part, in the crowded street, it was too late for words, and she hurried back to her room, hoping that the blood would not stain its way through her dress.

  38

  JOHN SPRAGG had hammered the dent out of Adam’s helmet, and the padding of the bandage made it fit better, so that it did not shift and rub his scalp on the march as it had before. At first Adam had been surprised by the weight of his musket and rest, and thought someone had filled the barrel with shot for a joke; but after a few hours on the march he had got used to it, although his legs still trembled and threatened to betray him when he stumbled in a rut.

  But anything was better than that horrible jolting on a cart through the wet darkness on the way to Frome. He felt sorry for those poor wounded men whom Ann and Nicolas Thompson had loaded onto the carts this morning. They would be lucky if their wounds were not opened and their bones put out of joint again by the end of the day. Adam rejoiced to be back on the march again, with the solid reassurance of his friends all around him, the familiar steady tramp of their feet, and the larks singing above the hazy dust-cloud kicked up by the thousands of men and horses in front and behind.

  Occasionally a psalm broke out, led by the rich baritone of Sergeant Evans; and earlier in the day they heard bits of a sermon preached by the chaplain of the army, given at the top of his voice on the text from Deuteronomy chapter 20: ‘The Lord your God is He that goeth with you, to fight for you against your enemies, to save you’. The pauses and crescendoes of his sermon had been punctuated by deep ‘Amens’ from Adam and the others.

  It had not perhaps been one of the best sermons he had heard, Adam thought reflectively; for since they were marching away from the enemy the preacher had had to avoid the earlier part of the text ‘Ye approach this day unto battle against your enemies’. So he had not quite worked up that air of fiery conviction which Israel Fuller used to have in the secret meetings in the woods near Axminster. But then it must be hard to preach on the march, when you were constantly having to avoid the ruts, or step in the hedgerow out of the way of horsemen taking messages up and down the line, and still keep the thread of your argument and your voice loud enough to carry over the noise of marching feet and creaking leather, and the violent coughs and sneezes of the men plagued with the hay fever. William Clegg had it worst; today, with the warm sun and all-enveloping dust, his eyes and nose were streaming, so that when they had paused at midday he had looked as exhausted as if he had walked twenty miles instead of ten. Adam caught himself hoping he would not have to stand near Clegg in the battle line, and offered up a short prayer instead that he would be cured of the affliction on the day of battle so that he could fight his best for the cause, though he doubted, as ever, whether his prayers would be heard.

  Adam wondered when the next battle would be. There had been murmurs of dismay from several men, not only Tom, when they had found themselves marching west out of Frome that morning, instead of east to Warminster, as they had expected. Last night John Clapp had come over from the cavalry, with the news that small detachments had already been sent east to find lodgings and look for arms and recruits on the road to Warminster, Longleat and London. Roger Satchell and Sergeant Evans had agreed in warning them all to march ready for battle, for Lord Feversham would surely not let them out into the plains of Wiltshire without a fight.

  Instead, here they were marching briskly back to Shepton Mallet, with not a royal soldier in sight. Roger Satchell had tried to cheer them by suggesting it had all been a trick to send Lord Feversham the wrong way, at which one or two had laughed. But what was the point of giving the enemy the slip, John Spragg had asked, if by doing so you let him get between you and London? Roger had scratched his head, and said he did not know, but perhaps they were marching to join up with some more recruits. No-one thought that particularly likely, since they had already been this wa
y before. Perhaps, William Clegg said, it was due to the kindness of their leader in not wanting to make his men start out the day with the sun in their eyes; but if so, they should then have made camp at midday, or turned round, instead of tramping on all afternoon into the west.

  Despite this confusion, Adam was so glad of his recovered strength and the simple blessing of sunshine instead of rain, that he did not care too much about where they marched. For the moment he could leave the major decisions of the campaign to their leaders and to God. He felt that most of his closest friends - John Spragg and William Clegg especially - thought the same. When it was time for battle they would see that their muskets were clean, their powder dry, and their aim sure - the rest was in the hands of the Lord.

  For surely this was God’s chosen army, Adam thought, whether he himself was one of the Elect or not. His one duty in all of this was to be like his friends; if he did not flinch when the time came, then no-one would know the depths of fear and doubt in his soul. No-one would be able to tell his children that their father had not been one of His chosen Elect, but one condemned to endless darkness and purgatory.

  So far at least he had not betrayed himself. He remembered with a kind of wonder how there had never actually been a moment when he could say he was afraid at Philip’s Norton, not even when the dragoon’s musket had been levelled at him and he had shouted to him to shoot. There had been no time, really, for fear; there had been all the hurry of forming up outside the walls and going through the musket drill, and they had marched forward in a kind of trance, so that the action had been all over before he had had time to feel anything. If only the next battle came soon, before he lost his trust in his leaders and the Lord, and began to doubt …

  He looked ahead at the tall figure of Tom, marching with his big pike over his shoulder. Why did he feel so sour about the lad? Had he been mistaken in his choice of son-in-law? Tom’s religion should have given him strength, as it had done at first; Adam remembered how fierce and determined the boy had been at Lyme and Bridport and Chard, how wretched he himself had felt beside him. There had been no question of his courage at Philip’s Norton either - had it not been for Tom he might have been dead. But this everlasting doubt about Monmouth’s right to be King, and his ability to lead, was poisoning the boy’s mind, and worse, spreading doubt and fear amongst the rest of them. Doubt, not of their own righteousness in the sight of the Lord, but of Monmouth’s.

  There was something else, too. Last night, when he had asked Tom about Ann, the boy had flushed, muttered something inaudible, then said that he had not seen her. At the time, Adam had put it down to shyness, but this morning John Spragg had said he had seen the two of them walking back into town together, looking as though they had quarrelled.

  A quarrel might be no bad thing, perhaps, if it had been about Tom’s doubts of Monmouth; for Tom needed someone to put some faith into him, and since she had returned Ann seemed more fiercely determined than any that they should win.

  But what if it had been about the marriage, or what had happened to her amongst the royal troops? Adam gripped his musket stock angrily at the thought of it. Tom was fiercely jealous, Adam knew, and might easily refuse to believe the story that Ann had told them. She and some other girls had been threatened, she said, by some dragoons, and then the officer, young Robert Pole, had kept her prisoner for her own protection. If only it had not been him, after what had happened to Simon! Ann swore he had behaved quite decently, but then, would she dare say otherwise? And she had blushed as she said it - was that just her own embarrassment at the question? Two or three days in the sole protection of that young rake - surely something must have happened. Perhaps that was what Tom thought too - the great lout might even think she was no longer good enough for him! Adam’s blood ran cold at the thought. It would hardly be Ann’s fault if anything had happened in those circumstances, and anyway Tom, of all people, should show faith in her.

  So why had the boy lied last night about seeing her? Why had they been out of the town together? When he had asked Tom to take care of the girl, that was not quite what he had meant. I ought to get her home, Adam thought. However good she is with the wounded, an army is no place for a decent girl. But while she was here, he had a duty to see she was not harmed. He sighed, knowing he would have to speak to them both as soon as possible.

  The opportunity came that night. The army reached Shepton Mallet, which they had already passed on their way east, and the soldiers were mostly billeted free in houses, choosing first those whose men had gone to the militia. After a decent home-cooked supper, Adam made his way to a house in the next street which the surgeon and Ann had been allocated. They had only just finished eating, for they had had the wounded to see to, but Adam was glad to find Tom there before him, although the surly look on the boy’s face did not make him feel welcome.

  Ann helped the housewife to clear the table, while the older men took out their long clay pipes and inhaled the smoke gratefully. Tom whittled at a piece of wood with his knife. For a while Adam and Nicolas Thompson talked generally about the progress of the day and the state of the wounded, and then, as Ann came back into the room, wiping her hands on an apron she had borrowed, Adam said:

  “I hope you won’t think me rude, friend Nicolas, but I have a few family matters to talk over with these youngsters. Is there any little room or parlour in this house, do you know, where we could retire for a private talk?”

  The lanky, white-haired surgeon drew in smoke reflectively, and looked at Adam and Tom from under his bushy eyebrows. “‘Tis a poor do, Adam, if a man can’t get a rest from his family troubles when he goes to war!” He got up, knocked his pipe out at the grate, and smiled at the three of them from his great height. “But if you’m taking my nurse, I shall have to go out to see to my poor charges, so I shan’t bother ‘ee for a while.”

  When he had gone Adam looked at the young couple, wondering how to begin. Tom gave him a quick glance and then dropped his eyes sullenly. His big hands were whittling at the piece of wood, which was taking the shape of a pike-blade between his fingers. Ann glanced at her father calmly, a slight flush on her face, and then came and sat down on the bench at the other end of the table.

  “Family matters, father? Have you had some news from home?”

  “No, of course not. I wish I had though.” He pressed his left hand down on the surface of the table, examining the spread fingers carefully. “I wish I had news that you were safe at home with your mother.”

  “Oh, father! I would much rather be here, and I am far more use to you, I’m sure! Who would have looked after you when you were wounded, if I had not been here?”

  “The Lord would have sent someone.” Her face clouded and he saw his mistake. “No, Ann, that is not fair. The Lord sent you to me and I am most grateful, truly. And so I am sure are those other poor wretches. But I would still rather send you home.”

  “But it wouldn’t be safe, father!”

  “Not safe? Whatever do you mean, girl?” He had a sudden awful vision of his house being pillaged and burnt, Mary and the children being driven out at swordpoint. “You have no bad news of home?”

  “No, father, how should I? I meant it wouldn’t be safe for me to travel, that’s all. I’m safer here.” She smiled, and saw his stern face relent a little, as she had hoped it would.

  “I suppose so, for now. But if the chance arises, I shall send you. The army is no place for a decent girl, you know that.”

  “I have you and Tom to look after me.” The words were a question to Tom, who sat without looking up, his eyes darkly concentrating on the wood, as he had sat all evening. When he had first come to the house, she had thought he wanted to speak to her alone, but he had just sat and whittled, and glanced at her occasionally with a deep, sullen look which she feared to interpret.

  Adam glanced at Tom as well. “So you have. But I’ve heard whispers about a quarrel between you two.”

  He could see by their reaction that there was so
me truth in it. Ann blushed, and Tom looked up from his wood, his eyes glancing from one to the other as though he were frightened of something. But a lover’s quarrel was nothing to be afraid of, Adam thought.

  “Who told you that?” Tom found his voice at last.

  “Someone who saw you coming back from the woods outside Frome last night. I am surprised that you should find that a fit place to walk together.”

  “What do you mean, father? There’s no harm in walking in a wood!”

  “Not at home, perhaps, where everyone knows you are betrothed. But I asked Tom here to take care of you, and when we are in the middle of an army of many thousands of men who do not know you, I hardly think it is taking good care of your reputation or your safety for you to be seen walking alone in the woods with any man.”

  There was a long pause, while Ann waited for Tom to speak. But he said nothing, and so at last she spoke for him, her hair half-hiding her face as she looked modestly down at the table.

  “I am sorry, father. You are quite right. It was my fault - I asked Tom to come with me so ... so that I could get away from the army for a little.”

  Her humility surprised Adam, after all the quarrels they had had about such things at home. And the guilty, hunted look in Tom’s eyes worried him more.

  “So what did you quarrel about?”

  “Nothing, father. We didn’t quarrel about anything.”

  “Tom?”

  “There was no quarrel.”

  “You don’t look so happy now.”

  “How should I be happy, when we have spent all day marching away from the enemy we have come to fight? Is this the way to get the Lord’s blessing on our cause?”

  “I didn’t come to discuss that, Tom. And at least it is safer for Ann; you should be glad of that.”