Lark Returning
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Blaize, Scotland, October 1812
Jane, March 1813
Aylie, December 1814
Aylie, 1826
Hugh, 1839
Aylie, 1844
Hugh, 1849
Hannah, 1858
Lark, 1891
Lark, 1914
1918
Copyright
This book is dedicated to my beloved Borderland
Blaize, Scotland, October 1812
‘Where am I?’ he wondered, and focused his eyes to look ahead. On the horizon he could see a line of softly rounded hills, their flanks covered with thick beech-woods. It was autumn and in the dying-year brilliance of the sun, the trees seemed to be on fire, glowing in brilliant red, gold, yellow and orange.
Perhaps it would have been better if he had died among the sun-baked lavender bushes on the plain outside Cuidad Rodrigo, for death in ambush would not be as shaming as the months he had spent as a prisoner, handed over by the Spanish to the British. Blaize Chardenel was a very proud Frenchman and the shame of being taken a prisoner by the boorish British bit hard into his soul. He had nothing but contempt for his new captors.
With two hundred other prisoners of war, he had arrived at the port of Leith and disembarked in front of the usual jeering crowd of loafers on a stone jetty lined along one side with stinking alehouses.
‘Here’s another Frog. Oh my, this is a bonny one, isn’t it? Look at his fancy jacket! Hey, Froggie, where did our lads get you?’ cried a group of ragged women as Blaize marched down the gangplank, deliberately straightening his shoulders as he went.
The march up a steep hill to Edinburgh was even more shaming because women and children lined the route, waving flags and chanting insults. He wanted to stop in the middle of the slimy, muck-covered cobbles and shout back at them, taunting them with their savagery and their filth, but he stared ahead, blank-eyed, trying not to hear their voices.
Yesterday they had stopped for the night at Valleyfield, about two hours’ march out of Edinburgh. There, penned up like animals in stone sheds, were many Frenchmen – some of whom he knew and had fought alongside in Spain – but his own journey was not yet finished. With ninety other officers he was selected to march on for thirty miles more, into the southern hinterlands of Scotland, to a town called Melrose.
He knew the authorities always chose isolated places to station prisoners on parole because they were far from ports and escape was difficult. But that would be a challenge, thought Blaize, he would get away, he would foil them.
Now he walked alone, head high, one hand gripping the shoulder strap of his knapsack and the other holding a red-covered bundle bound round and round with rope. His scarlet Hussar’s jacket was patched and stained, with the intricately looped gilt epaulettes unravelling in spite of the care he had taken to repair them, but nine months in captivity had levied a heavy toll on his once dandified appearance.
Behind him he heard the clatter of a horse’s hooves on the loose stones of the road and one of the escort troop rode up on him. The man leaned down from the horse’s back and pushed at Blaize with his long staff, yelling, ‘Get a move on, keep up with the others.’
‘Don’t touch me, you peasant,’ he spat out in French, using his bundle to thrust the stave aside. The man on the horse did not understand what the prisoner was saying and for a moment he contemplated bringing the stave down hard on the Frenchman’s dark head, but there was something in the eyes staring back at him that intimidated the guard, something that warned him against violence or bullying. He drew back his arm and said gruffly before riding off, ‘Just keep up, that’s all, keep up with the others.’
* * *
It was dark as he stumbled up the slow rise of a twisting street lined with houses to a square and a market cross where a brazier was burning and a group of men awaited the new arrivals. French voices greeted him. ‘Welcome brothers, welcome citizens, welcome to Melrose, you’ve come to the best place to be a prisoner!’
A ruddy-faced fellow of about his own age, eyes alight with friendship and goodwill, came up to Blaize and helped him off with his knapsack. From his accent, Blaize judged him to be from Normandy or Brittany but it was too dark in the square to make out which uniform he was wearing, if indeed his ragged jacket was a uniform at all. He was thickly bearded and the darting flames of the brazier sparkled on the golden earrings he wore.
‘It’s good to see some new faces. What’s your name?’ asked the friendly man.
‘Chardenel, Blaize Chardenel, Captain in the Fourth Hussars, taken in Spain.’
‘Like most of the men here. Where are you from?’
‘My home’s in Arles.’
The stranger smiled, showing fine teeth.
‘Ah, the sun-filled south! I know Montpellier well, because I’m a surgeon and I studied there. My name’s Jacques Lacoste and my home’s in Rheims. I was surgeon on a privateer, captured a year ago, but this is a good place to sit out the war. You’ll be very comfortable here, my friend.’
Blaize was surprised at this attitude from a Frenchman. He said gruffly, ‘I don’t want to sit out the war. I want to get back to fight for the Emperor. I don’t care how comfortable you are here, you should be ashamed not to be fighting again.’
Lacoste just laughed.
‘They all say that when they first arrive. Come on, you can billet with me. I’ve got some rooms in a house down the street with an old widow. She’s well disposed to me because I’m treating her rheumatics and she thinks I’m some sort of wizard! Follow me.’
* * *
The autumn of 1812 was glorious and the sun which beamed down every day showed the little town of Melrose to its best advantage. Its centre was an ancient ruined abbey built of red sandstone round which the town clung, tucked neatly into a bend of the river Tweed, surrounded by trees and orchards and with smooth green meadows stretching along the banks of the river. Apart from the old abbey, the most striking thing about the town was three tall hills called the Eildons that rose suddenly from the plain just behind the town, a triple crown of hills with their flanks dotted by flocks of sheep and streaked purple with banks of heather.
Every day Blaize climbed to the top of one of the guardian hills and stared over the spreading plains, trying to work out the best way to escape. Even in his misery he had to admit that the Border landscape was heartbreakingly beautiful – from the hilltop he could see silver rivers twisting lazily through tree-filled valleys; acres of untouched woodlands; viridian-green fields dotted with grazing animals and here and there a cluster of houses, the smoke from their chimneys drifting lazily up into the sky which was a soft shade of pigeon-egg blue, streaked with trails of soft white cloud that changed to a wash of pink and purple at evening. When spirals of grey smoke began to rise from the town’s chimneys and a ghost-like mist drifted in from the river, it was time to go home. He turned back to his lodgings where his friend Lacoste would be waiting beside a well-laden tea table, chaffing the friendly, gap-toothed old landlady who hovered over him like a loving mother.
‘Why do you go off on your own every day? What do you do with yourself? Have you found a girl so soon?’ Jacques was always joking.
He never seemed low, never got depressed. His captivity sat lightly on him and he was one of a group of prisoners who had formed a theatre club that gave performances once a week to the people from the town. He also played the violin in the prisoners’ orchestra and was a member of their recently formed Masonic Lodge, the creation of which had formed bonds with the men of Melrose, many of whom were also keen Masons. Jacques’ open, friendly manner had made h
im many friends and local people consulted him on medical matters – consultations which they paid for – and because Jacques was a good doctor, he was never short of money. He found Blaize’s misery difficult to understand and as the weeks passed he grew worried in case his fellow lodger was about to succumb to the melancholy that sometimes seized men in captivity and which had already caused one suicide among the French prisoners.
Now Blaize sat down heavily at the tea table and said testily, ‘No, I haven’t found a girl. I’m not looking for a girl, I’ve a wife in Arles.’
‘Humph, that’s a long way away,’ said Jacques, who was lavishly spreading bread with raspberry jam. He had an eye for the ladies and was already a favourite with the young women of the town who flocked to the theatre performances in which he appeared, booming out with his baritone voice and thrilling their susceptible hearts with his blond beard and glittering earrings.
‘We’re different, you and I,’ said Blaize. ‘This place bores me. I hate the stupid red-faced people. I hate their backward little town, their lack of sophistication. They are still living in the Middle Ages. They know nothing, these people…’
Jacques leaned back and stared at Blaize. ‘And you wonder how they managed to beat you in Spain? You can’t understand it, can you? Let me tell you, they’re good people and they’re good soldiers, my friend, as good as ours. If France is to win it will be a hard war, and now that we can do nothing to help, we can only hope. Believe me, I’m as good a Frenchman as you but I’m a realist. We’re here, we’re alive, we’ve given our word to stay here. All we can do is make the best of it.’
‘I’m not staying. I’m going back to fight. I’m determined that I’m going to get away,’ said Blaize, knocking over his chair as he marched out of the room without even tasting Widow Grant’s teacakes.
* * *
When November came, winter set in and the winds began to blow from the north, biting through the thin clothing of the newly arrived prisoners till their very bones ached.
It seemed the weather was now determined to make up for the mildness of the autumn and show the Frenchmen what a Scottish winter could be like.
The three watching Eildon hills behind Melrose were crowned with snow from early in the month, and at night the pools in the fields round the town and on its streets froze to sheets of ice that reflected the moon and the stars in the clear frosty sky.
‘You can’t go walking about in this wind, you’ll catch your death with only that jacket to cover you,’ said Jacques to Blaize one bitter morning. ‘Come down to the town hall with me and listen to our orchestra.’
To Jacques’ surprise, Blaize agreed. It was 25 November and he did not tell Jacques that it was his thirtieth birthday. His gloom had been so cruel when he awoke that morning that he feared for his own sanity, and realized he must do something to help himself. So he accompanied his bear-like friend to the music room which the Frenchmen had set up in the first floor of a house on the corner of a narrow little road that led down to the abbey.
Jacques played the violin, sitting sawing away with his big red hands among a group of violinists, all more skilful than he.
Blaize listened, leaning against the music-room door, his eyes hooded and his head half down until the first piece was finished. Then he looked up and laughed. ‘You’re not much of a musician, my friend,’ he told Jacques.
The big blond man was visibly nettled. ‘No, perhaps not, but at least I try. I don’t just wander about hating everything and everybody.’
Blaize flushed, the colour rising under his golden skin. Immediately he was apologetic.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘Are you a musician then?’ asked another of the orchestra who disliked the sullen newcomer.
‘I play the flute,’ said Blaize.
‘We need a flautist,’ was the reply. ‘Chaumier has a flute, he’ll lend it to you.’
A man in the back row bent down, brought up a little wooden flute and handed it forward through the ranks of the players to Jacques’ defender, who brought it over to Blaize.
‘Let’s hear you play that,’ he challenged.
The flute was battered and felt light in his hands as he touched it lovingly, remembering many nights before all the fighting started, when he had been able to laugh, to make music and be happy. Something tightened painfully in his throat at the memory but he put the flute to his lips and blew a little trill… ‘Yes, I can play this, it’s a nice flute,’ he said.
The orchestra played an old French country air which he knew and he joined in, making the notes soar, jump and dance beneath his fingers. The pleasure of making music won him over from his gloom and he closed his eyes in ecstasy, playing on alone for some moments before he realized that the rest of the orchestra had stopped and were listening to him.
Jacques was the first to speak. ‘I bow before you, master,’ he said with a good-tempered laugh. ‘You’re a real musician.’
Embarrassed, Blaize laughed too and, putting the flute to his mouth again, played some bars of music by Haydn which the orchestra took up after him in a ragged but enthusiastic fashion. They were playing away with gusto when the door opened and two men in dark blue bonnets and cloaks over black and white checked trousers came in and sat down in the row of chairs beneath the window. When the music ended they clapped and one of them limped over to Colonel Berton, who was the orchestra leader, and said, ‘You are aiming at high things now, I hear, Berton. What was that you were playing?’
The colonel smiled and replied, it was a piece of music by Dr Haydn. I think it is one of the pieces he wrote in London.’
The newcomer looked at Blaize and said, ‘The man who plays the flute is very good. Is he one of the new arrivals?’
The colonel, who was senior officer among the prisoners and responsible for them, nodded. ‘He was in the last intake. Like me, he was taken in Spain.’
The limping man now addressed himself to Blaize, who noticed that he had some sort of speech impediment which made him roll his Rs in a strange, guttural way.
He spoke first in English and then, thinking that he was not fully understood, switched to French – not good French it was true, but at least French after a fashion.
‘Where did you learn to play the flute?’ he asked.
‘I was taught by a man in my grandfather’s orchestra.’ Blaize spoke English. He had been learning it ever since he was taken prisoner, in the hope that when the time came to escape, knowledge of the language would aid his getaway.
‘In your grandfather’s orchestra? He was a band leader?’ The limping man was still using French.
But Blaize was determined to decide the language and replied again in heavily accented English.
‘He had an orchestra in his home.’
Surprise made his adversary give in. His words this time were in English too.
‘In his home? He had his own orchestra? Who was he?’
‘My grandfather was the Comte de Florac. He was also very fond of music.’
Some of the men in the orchestra laughed but the limping man was too impressed to be aware of their amusement. He stepped over to Blaize and held out a hand.
‘My dear man,’ he said affably as if to an equal, ‘you must come to dinner with me. Bring some friends – and your flute. We’ll have a musical evening.’
And turning to the colonel, he said, ‘Berton, I’ll send my carriage tomorrow night for you and this accomplished young man. Bring another four friends as well and I’ll give you all a fine dinner.’
* * *
‘I don’t want to go to dinner with him. I don’t care if he is the local sheriff – whatever that means – I think he only asked us because he heard my grandfather was a count. If he had been a bandmaster or a woodcutter, there would have been no invitation for me.’
Jacques, who was tying a white cravat round his neck and patting his beard down over it with vast satisfaction, said, ‘Don’t be stup
id. He wants to hear you make magic with that flute. We’ll have a splendid dinner because Berton says he keeps a very good table and has a fine new house three miles up the river. We don’t get much chance to go beyond the mile boundary, so come on, you’ll get a chance to see the local countryside.’
Blaize spat derisively. ‘Local countryside! It’s a desert as far as I’m concerned – ruins, fields, hills and all those trees. It’s like some place that’s been stuck in time, at least three hundred years ago. There’s no fine houses, no good buildings. Our fine houses in Arles have all been there since Roman times.’
Jacques laughed. ‘Well, the Romans were here too, you know, so you should feel quite at home. The local people tell me that they had a fort and a temple up there on the nearest Eildon hill.’
Blaize followed his pointing finger and looked through the window at the slope of the hill where the sheep were huddled together for shelter among dead-looking bracken and gorse bushes. Not a building was to be seen.
‘Oh, poor Romans, they must have hated it – almost as much as I do. Imagine sitting up there amongst all those sheep in this weather?’
Jacques laughed. ‘Forget the Romans, put on your jacket with all its gold braid and let’s go to eat the dinner of Mr Walter Scott, the good sheriff.’
* * *
The coachman was eager to talk as they drove along the tree-lined, snow-banked road that led out of the town.
‘Oh aye, the Shirra’s going to build a fine new house out there. He’s changed its name already – Abbotsford sounds a deal better than Clarty Hole.’
Colonel Berton leaned forward in his seat. ‘Clarty Hole? What does that mean?’ He was interested in the local dialect and was making a collection of Scottish words and expressions.
‘Clarty Hole?’ The coachman laughed beerily into the thick collar of his coat. ‘Clarty means dirty, filthy, full o’muck. You know what “hole” means, don’t you? He likes words, does Maister Scott. He’s a bit of a poet, you ken.’
Lark Returning Page 1
