by Jane Feather
“Why do you not just give up?” she asked. “He is determined not to heed you, so you only create aggravation for yourself.”
Ben sighed, rubbing his temples wearily in a manner that tugged at Bryony’s heartstrings. “I daresay you’re right, but I cannot stand aside and say nothing when so many lives are at stake. Now, what is it that you wanted?”
“Only whether the portmanteaux are to go to the rear, or whether we should take them up with us.” It seemed a dreadfully trivial issue in the light of Ben’s wrestling with life-and-death matters. “It affects what I put in them, you see,” she explained lamely. “If they are to go to the rear, I will keep some necessities out…. Oh, I beg your pardon. I should not be bothering you with such petty problems.”
Some of the tension had left Ben’s face, and the corners of his mouth quirked slightly. “Let me ask you a question, lass. This is an army, marching into battle. The horses on which we shall be riding are also going to be facing the guns and bayonets. Does it strike you as reasonable that they should also be weighted down with cooking pots and clean clothes and sheets and—”
“Oh, do stop!” Bryony begged, flushing to the roots of her hair at this absurd image. “I didn’t think of that.”
He tipped her chin with a long forefinger, saying seriously, although with a smile, “Next time you have a question of such a nature, think around it a little. I am sure you will come up with the answer yourself.”
“Yes,” Bryony mumbled, feeling more stupid than she could ever remember. “I am sorry to have interrupted you.”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter in the slightest,” Ben said. “You may interrupt me in such a circumstance as often as you please. It might serve to keep my sanity, or, at least, to ensure that I am not court-martialed for assaulting a superior officer!”
“Well, I am sorry for being so stupid, then.”
“You won’t be, another time,” he replied, a lot more cheerfully. “Now, you had better go about your business and leave me to mine.” He pinched her cheek in careless affection and returned to the men under the beech tree.
Bryony returned to her task of rolling their clothes into tight sausage shapes so that they would fit into the rounded, oblong leather portmanteaux supplied by Paul Tyler. He had also procured her expanded wardrobe, he and Ben having pronounced the doeskin tunic to be quite unsuitable for a wife living among soldiers. Bryony now had several serviceable gowns and a riding habit of the kind worn by respectable bourgeois women. Eliza would be shattered at the thought of her daughter in calico and kersey, with pinchbeck buckles on her shoes….
Bryony stuffed a cotton stocking into a spare corner and dashed a recalcitrant teardrop from her cheek. The effect of her present wardrobe on her mother was hardly important when compared with the basic facts of her present existence. She sat back on her heels and surveyed her handiwork. She was still lamentably unhandy at these tasks, and it had taken much pushing and scrunching to put back in the bags what had originally come out of them. Everything would be horribly creased when they were unpacked. If they were ever unpacked. The thought rose unbidden. Who was to know whether they would both be alive on the morrow? Certainly, a few creases in their clothes would not be regarded. Why did she keep having these silly, trivial thoughts when the world was teetering around her? Probably just because it was teetering, she thought gloomily. The mind responded in the strangest ways to fear.
The fear did not abate as the day wore on. Indeed, once she had completed the packing and could find nothing else useful to do, it threatened to fill her mind, lurking in dark corners like some dream monster waiting to spring out and swallow her. She wandered aimlessly around the now dismantled camp, but everyone she knew was enviably occupied, harassed frowns on their brows, voices slightly sharpened. There were other women with the army—many wives, and some not dignified with that status—although none that Ben considered fit companions for his own wife. But today she felt a great need for the companionship of those who must be feeling much as she did. Her position was the same as theirs—the woman of a man who was going to face death on the battlefield. Like her, they would bear no part in the business of war, but hung on the periphery, performing the little domestic tasks that needed no engagement of the mind and merely served to emphasize the ephemeral quality of life.
A knot of women, surrounded by a wall of kit bags, sat in the shade of a willow tree, and Bryony’s steps, without conscious prompting, went in that direction. As she approached, they looked up curiously but without hostility, and when she smiled, nodded at her in friendly fashion.
“May I sit with you?” she asked. “I find myself somewhat …” She sought for words to explain her present distress but saw instantly that they were not necessary.
“Sit ye down,” an angular woman with a sharp nose invited promptly. “There’s nuthin’ to be done but wait, and waitin’s better in company.”
“Yes,” Bryony agreed gratefully, and sat on the grass within the circle of kit bags. She had little to contribute to the conversation, concerned as it was with people and events that were unfamiliar to her. She knew nothing of life in the ranks, as they knew nothing of an officer’s life, but she was content to listen and to admire the stoic resolution of the women who marched with the army’s backbone. They had left behind farms and cottages; children, in some cases; parents and siblings. And they were all frightened, and all resigned to living with that fear.
Bryony found herself drawing strength from her honorary membership in this strange sisterhood and allowed her mind to drift as the long hours of the afternoon wore on. Whatever happened would happen. Then suddenly the elusive peace was shattered. Charlie Carter, out of breath, his young eyes anxious, appeared suddenly on the outskirts of the circle.
“Bryony, in the name of the good God! We are about to start out! Ben has been looking for you for this last hour.”
“But he did not say … tell me to be …” she stammered, apologizing profusely as she tripped over legs and feet on her impetuous way to join Charlie. “What time is it?”
“Near six,” he told her. “You have not eaten and there is all hell to pay. Gates is already mounted, and the first column is set to move out. He has already told Ben that he will not wait any longer and—”
“Oh, don’t say any more.” Bryony groaned, needing no expansion to imagine the scene that would be laid before her in a very few minutes.
“Ben, I cannot tell you how sorry I am,” she said swiftly, going to where he stood white with anger and mortification, holding the bridles of Bryony’s mare and the magnificent plantation horse, both given to them by Paul Tyler. “I did not realize the time and did not see any signs of—”
“Well, now that you are here, ma’am, perhaps Colonel Clare would be so good as to fall in, so we may get this army on the march,” General Gates declared with biting sarcasm.
Ben went, if anything, even paler and his black eyes blazed. “Get up,” he snapped, holding his cupped palm to receive her foot as she took the reins. He tossed her onto the mare’s back and mounted his own horse without further word. From somewhere behind them, a drum began to beat, slowly at first, then with rousing fervency, and General Gates spurred his horse.
“Ben, please,” she whispered, her mare nudging the gelding’s flanks. “I would not have had that happen for the world.”
He looked sideways at her. The expressive blue eyes were liquescent, radiating distress and penitence. The soft mouth quivered anxiously, and he could not hold on to his anger. “Where were you?”
“With some of the women. I was a little afeard.” She shrugged in self-deprecation. “I found their company comforting, and the time just disappeared.”
“I do not need to be glaringly in the wrong with Gates,” he said ruefully. “It’s bad enough when he picks fault without justification, but when he has just cause …”
“Yes, I know. Am I pardoned?”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Aye, lass, yo
u are pardoned. I know it was not done on purpose, and I was not there for you, although I wish that I could have been. You have cause to be afeard—we all are.”
Night fell all too soon as the unwieldy army found itself squelching across squishy ground, their boots settling in at each step, requiring a heave to bring them free with a reluctant gurgle. It was slow, painful going, as hard for the cavalry horses as for the infantry, and conditions were not improved by the constant whining torment of mosquitoes, rising in clouds from the unhealthy swamp-ground to feast with a glutton’s delight on the sweat-slick skins of three thousand burdened men.
Bryony drew the hood of her cloak around her face, preferring the misery of near suffocation to that of exposure to the vicious darts that left great itching lumps—more virulent than those she remembered from home. All around her, men swore and slapped, and horses tossed their manes and flicked their tails. To add to the entire wretched discomfort of it all, her belly began to make vociferous complaint at its missed supper. The Lord only knew when the next meal would appear, or where from; food seemed a thoroughly incongruous reality in this stinking, squelching, midnight oven.
“I daresay you now wish you had joined the ranks of the wise virgins and supped when you had the chance?” Ben spoke with mock solemnity at her side as her stomach growled.
“Do not gloat; it’s most disagreeable,” Bryony told him. “It was not as if, with foolish improvidence, I passed up the opportunity when it was offered. It was not offered.”
“You were not around when it was,” her husband corrected with remorseless truth. “However …” He leaned sideways to unfasten a saddlebag. “Being a caring and considerate commander, I thought of your welfare.” He handed her a small package. “This will serve to keep the wolf at bay.”
“My thanks.” Bryony smiled gratefully and unwrapped the offering with eager fingers. Cheese, a hunk of manchet bread, and an apple did much to restore her spirits, and she was beginning to feel that maybe they would get through this dreaded march without mishap, when an explosion to the right, accompanied by a sheet of flame, brought a bellow of fear and anger from somewhere behind her.
“What is it?” Even as she asked, the crack and whine of musket balls rent the air, and all hell broke loose.
“God dammit! We are under attack!” Benedict swore, wheeling his horse. “Get down low over the saddle. Whatever you do, stay mounted and keep up with the front line. I will be back as soon as I can.” He galloped off to the rear, intent on rallying the dismayed troops. Bryony crouched in the saddle, bereft and terrified. General Gates and his headquarters staff, as one body, spurred their horses onward, hoping to outdistance the fighting.
Instinctively, she drew back on the reins as the fear of separating herself from Ben took precedence over her fear of the firing. Charlie Carter appeared at her side. “You’re to keep up with the general’s party,” he panted. “Ben says he’ll have your hide if you lose them.”
“But I don’t want to lose Ben,” she protested, then pulled herself together smartly and urged the mare forward again. “I crave pardon, Charlie.” Brilliant flashes of light stabbed the dark night and the explosions of grenades mingled with the incessant snap and crack of muskets as they were primed and fired. Commands were shouted on all sides, and Bryony could not begin to imagine that there was any order in the seething bubble of confusion that had filled the night.
“Ben will be all right,” Charlie comforted. “But he’s needed where he is. If the men lack leadership, they’ll cut and run in panic.”
“Then, had you better not go where you are also needed?” She smiled, her face pale, but her eyes shining resolutely in the reddish glow that had replaced the darkness.
Charlie looked doubtful. “Ben said to stay with you if you wanted me.”
“I do not require a nursemaid,” she responded firmly. “I will stay with the general’s party, and Benedict will find me when he is free.”
“If you are sure?” It was clear that Charlie could not wait to be off to the action himself, and Bryony reiterated that she was quite certain and sent him on his way.
The rest of the night passed in a nightmare of shouts and shots, interspersed with the shrill screams of horses and the cries of wounded men as the attackers hounded the army, cutting down stragglers and keeping up an incessant barrage of fire into the columns of marching men who could not see the enemy in order to defend themselves with returning fire. Benedict and his fellow officers could do little but keep the columns moving, shouting encouragement where it would help, and curses and threats where they seemed more appropriate. Men fell on all sides, but Ben, his face blackened with gunsmoke, deeply etched with lines of fatigue and fury at this senseless carnage that could so easily have been avoided, rode in the midst of the slaughter as if protected by some talisman. On one occasion, a musket ball almost clipped his ear, but he simply brushed the air as if a mosquito had attacked him, and then hurtled down, sword raised, at a group of the enemy who had fallen upon a pair of wounded troopers. Miraculously, they fell back, making no attempt to cut down his horse, and vanished into the swampy darkness. A ragged cheer rose from the column at the sight, and Ben forced a grin on his face as he galloped past them, waving his sword in victory and encouragement.
Dawn did eventually come, even to those doubters who had become resigned to an eternal night of sudden death. With the first gray streaks in the sky, the attack ceased, the enemy fading into the landscape. Benedict rode the length of the column, taking note of the damage. The walking wounded struggled on with the aid of their fellows, but those who were down stayed down, littering the path on both sides, together with the bodies of horses and mules. On the faces of all but the veterans, sullen anger, resentment, and fear showed. What had happened in the night was not war as they had believed it to be; it was murder and they had been offered up like pigs to the slaughter.
“Do you think they’ll ever fight again?” John Davidson, his face as black and weary as Benedict’s, appeared out of the dawn gloom.
“Not with much heart,” Ben replied grimly. “Can you blame them?”
John shook his head. “Where is our illustrious general?”
Ben’s lips tightened; his eyes became ebony pinpricks of contempt. “Safe and sound, it is to be assumed, well ahead of all this mess. I only hope my wife is with him.” He turned his horse toward the head of the columns. “I think, if you will excuse me, John, I’ll go and find out.”
Bryony, however, once the firing had ceased and it became clear would not be restarted, couldn’t contain her anxiety and dropped behind the front line, where she had ridden throughout the long dark hours, crouched low in the saddle, her hood drawn tight around her as if she could block out the sounds of fear and death, trying to master her own terror—a terror that was for Ben rather than for herself.
“Mrs. Clare?” an adjutant, seeing her fall back, called imperatively. “Is anything the matter?”
“No, nothing,” she replied. “I had thought to go in search of my husband.”
“He’ll be along soon enough with his report,” General Gates said briskly. “You’d do much better to keep your place with us. No sense getting lost. Clare will not be best pleased if he cannot find you.”
There was certainly sense in this, Bryony reflected, but she knew she could no longer ride in ignorance with this group who showed no imperative need to discover the worst. True, throughout the night, riders had brought reports of events behind them, but Bryony couldn’t understand why, now that they could draw breath, the general did not halt the army and take stock. “I will not go far, sir,” she said, and turned the mare. She was halfway down the column when she recognized Ben’s horse first, the blackened rider second.
Her heart leaped with relief, and joy seeped into her toes. “Ben!” She set the mare to gallop, pounding up to him, waving with frantic abandon.
“Dear God! What are you doing here?” demanded Ben, the need for discipline taking precedence over his own
joyful relief and the overpowering urge to sink into her softness, drawing from it the strength he knew would be forthcoming. “I told you to stay with the van.”
“Oh, never mind that!” Bryony held up her arms imperatively. “You look like a sweep, but if you don’t kiss me immediately, I shall not be able to believe you’re alive.”
“I do mind it,” Ben groaned, yielding to what was both demand and invitation, leaning down to catch her face as she clasped her arms around his neck, her lips opening on a soft exhalation of pleasure as dread and terror finally were vanquished. “If I cannot trust you to obey orders, I will be prey to anxiety, and I cannot afford to add to my worries.”
“I left the general’s side but ten minutes ago,” Bryony declared in stout defense. “There seemed to be no further danger, and I couldn’t stand to wait in idleness and dread another minute. You cannot have just cause for complaint.”
“No, I suppose I cannot,” Ben agreed. “But, oh, lass, it was a damnable night’s work.” Weariness stood out in every line of his body, for all that he held himself as straight in the saddle as if he had just mounted after a long night’s sleep. She touched his gloved hand in silent empathy. “Come, I have to make my report.” His voice became strong again, and he urged his tired mount forward. “As soon as we are free of this damn swamp, we must halt and rest.”
It took much persuasion, however, before General Gates could be brought to see the necessity for a brief respite. Benedict was amply supported by others who had seen the devastation and dismay among the ranks, and at mid-morning a halt was called on the banks of the Wateree River. The pause allowed the surgeons to do what they could for the wounded, and allowed the hale to eat what they could scavenge and to rest bodies that had been pushed unmercifully for sixteen hours.
Ben’s saddlebags yielded a slab of bacon; John appeared with six duck eggs, laughingly refusing to account for such a possession. But no one was prepared to question the arrival of such bounty. Charlie, bewailing the fact that he had nothing to contribute but his labor, collected sticks and lit a fire, then begged the use of a skillet from a group of troopers who had contrived to tickle two good-sized trout from the river and were willing to share their skillet in exchange for use of the fire.
