Ashes of Pride

by Tracy Cooper-Posey

“You,” he said in agreement, then shut the door and took himself away before he spoke more compromising truths.

  Chapter Nine

  The old long rifles were still used to train raw recruits and enlisted men, even though they had been retired from active service in favor of the Snider–Enfield breech-loading rifle. Over one hundred muzzle-loaded muskets laid in a tangled mess inside crates on the floor of the armory.

  After two hours of polishing pistols, Neil turned to the muskets and patiently untangled them and cleaned them. Musket barrels must be kept scrupulously clean or the gunpowder would eat at the inside of the barrel. Barrels worn away in irregular places would disperse the force of the gunpowder when it exploded, and the shot would lose power and speed…and accuracy.

  He didn’t mind the work. Holding the old barrels up to the lamp to inspect them and scrape away crusts kept his thoughts occupied and allowed him to achieve some calmness.

  Neil would have to consider everything which had happened today in the sober light of tomorrow. His anger was still too close to be able to reason properly now. It was better to keep his hands occupied and his thoughts idle.

  He lowered the barrel he had cleaned and reassembled the musket with quick, sure movements. Then, as a double-check to ensure he had bedded the barrel correctly, he raised the musket and peered along the sights, to see that they were aligned.

  The big, old stable door slid aside as someone thrust it open from the outside. Seymour and his man, Digby, stood framed in the open doorway. Seymour’s pale, bloodshot eyes widened when he spotted the musket in Neil’s hands.

  Major Hunter strode up behind them, moving at a speed which indicated he had been attempting to catch up with them as the two moved across the parade ground from the mess to the old stables where the armory was located.

  Neil lowered the musket and placed it on the counter beside the others. Seymour’s expression told him to brace himself for more trouble.

  Seymour raised his hand and pointed a trembling finger at Neil. “Did you see that, Digby?” he demanded. “The man pointed a rifle at me!”

  Hunter’s lips parted in surprise, as he looked from Neil, standing behind the counter, to Seymour, quivering with rage.

  “He had me in his sights!” Seymour cried.

  Digby nodded in hasty agreement.

  Dismay gripped Neil’s throat and gut and twisted.

  Seymour turned to Hunter. “I demand you arrest Williams, right this instant. Threatening an officer with a weapon is a court martial offence! Arrest him! Now!”

  Neil could see the caution bloom in Hunter by the way his movements became slow and wary. Hunter frowned. “I saw the man cleaning an old musket,” he said cautiously.

  “He pointed it at me! Digby, confirm it!” Seymour’s voice cracked.

  Digby cleared his throat. “He was pointing the musket this way,” he said, his tone diffident.

  Hunter looked from one to the other. His jaw worked. He glanced at Neil, then moved a half-pace closer to Seymour and lowered his voice. “I wonder, sir, if I might have a word with you in private?”

  Relief touched Neil. Hunter would try to reason with the man. He would try to contain this and minimize the fuss. He was peering into Seymour’s eyes, willing the man to listen to reason.

  Seymour nodded, the movement stiff with indignation and fury. Hunter nodded and marched out of the armory and around the corner. There was a three-paces wide space between the armory building and the barracks beside it.

  Seymour glared at Neil. His expression made Neil shiver, for hatred gleamed in the man’s eyes.

  HUNTER MADE SURE TO STAND to one side of the narrow space between the building, instead of simply turning to face Seymour, which the man might take as a direct confrontation. He must maintain the appearance of a friend and ally if he was to save Williams from a full court martial.

  Seymour crossed his arms. “You will not dispute me,” he told Hunter. “Threatening an officer cannot be tolerated, or wholesale anarchy will ensue.”

  “That is true,” Hunter said. “Only, the musket was empty. He was cleaning the weapon upon your orders, sir.”

  Seymour’s mouth twisted. “Must I make it an order, Major?”

  Hunter held up his hand. “Do you remember the conversation we had in my office a few days ago? About escalating offenses?”

  Seymour’s anger checked. He frowned. “I remember,” he said, in a more reasonable tone.

  “The man has been fined and now he cleans guns. From there to a court martial…” Hunter shook his head doubtfully.

  “Too great a leap, hey?” Seymour said.

  “Precisely,” Hunter said. “This is not a straight-forward offense, sir. He was cleaning the musket. It wasn’t loaded. These are points he could use to dispute the charge. What you need is a completely undeniable offense, one which he cannot wriggle out of.”

  Seymour rubbed at his jaw thoughtfully. He swayed a little at the motion, telling Hunter he had downed more than the single decanter of brandy Hunter had watched the man drink over dinner. How long had he been drinking before dinner?

  Seymour dropped his hand. “Do you have a suggestion, Major?”

  Hunter adopted a diffident tone. “I thought, perhaps, from fines to extra duties…Field Punishment would be the next most logical step, would it not?”

  Seymour considered the suggestion, blinking. “Why yes…” he breathed. “Two hours every day, for ninety days.”

  Hunter hid his shock. “One hour every day for a week is usual for a first offense.”

  “It isn’t his first offence!” Seymour cried.

  Hunter held up his hands. “No, of course not. You are correct. Then we are agreed? Field punishment this time and we wait for a better opportunity? One will most certainly come along sooner or later. We have only to watch for it. Williams is a trouble-maker.” The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

  Seymour relaxed, almost slumping in his relief. He gave a weak smile. “You have my gratitude, Hunter. I am not used to such…support. I have never had a comrade-in-arms.” He swayed.

  Hunter thought the brandy was catching up with the man.

  Seymour’s lips pressed against Hunter’s. Shock kept Hunter still and silent.

  Seymour drew back, looking as stunned as Hunter felt. He pressed the back of his hand against his mouth. His hand trembled.

  Hunter tugged his jacket into place. “Out of respect for a fellow officer, I will forget what just happened. Sir.” He nodded and moved out of the narrow space, his shoulders square. His back crawled.

  Reluctantly, he went back into the armory to tell Neil Williams he had averted a court martial, yet the price was still too high, in his estimation…and there was nothing he could do about it.

  AT TWO O’CLOCK PRECISELY, HUNTER himself unlocked the chains around Neil’s wrists and ankles and threaded them back through the wagon wheel, while his adjutant stood by with a flask and a towel.

  The two other men suffering through field punishment had been released four hours ago, when the morning was still cool. Seymour had insisted that Neil’s two hours be from noon to two o’clock, the hottest hours of the days.

  Hunter’s eyes were narrowed in concern. “Move slowly,” he told Neil, gripping his shoulder. “You’ll be dizzy at first.”

  “Is that water?” Neil was unable to take his gaze off the flask in the adjutant’s hands. His voice was little more than a croak.

  “Here, sit,” Hunter said, lowering Neil to the ground. “James, the water.” He held out his hand. The adjutant thrust the flask into the major’s hand. Hunter unstopped it and held it to Neil’s lips. “Sips, only, at first,” he warned.

  The first mouthful hurt, going down. Gradually, the water moistened his mouth and tongue and he could swallow without coughing the stuff up. When the flask was nearly empty, Neil let his head fall back against the wheel, with a deep sigh.

  “I’m sorry,” Hunter said softly.

  Neil moved his head from side
to side. “You did your best. This, too, shall pass.”

  Hunter stood. “Are you up to moving, Williams?”

  Neil cracked open one eye. “Why?”

  “There’s a man, Davies, who has been waiting at the gate for over an hour, to speak to you. He won’t come into the barracks.”

  “Which Davies?” Neil said.

  “The sentry at the gate says it’s the same man who was here a few days ago, with his wife.”

  “Iefan,” Neil breathed. “He’s supposed to be in France.” He struggled to his feet. Two hours standing and doing nothing had seemed a small price to pay to avoid a court martial, only he had not reckoned upon the belting, relentless sun and the heat. It had sapped most of his strength.

  Hunter gripped his arm until he had his balance once more. “Your duty roster ends today. Two days’ leave—and it is at my discretion if a man must complete his field punishment during his leave. I have decided that in your case, it is unnecessary.” His voice dropped. “Take the days and go somewhere far from here, Neil.”

  Neil grinned. “I already have the train ticket.” He had bought it this morning, shortly after Seymour had inspected the armory and pronounced his nights’ work adequate.

  “Go home, Williams,” Major Hunter told him. “You didn’t sleep last night and now this. Go and sleep, then catch your train.”

  Neil got his feet moving. His first few steps were unsteady, although the movement itself helped restore strength to his limbs. By the time he reached the other side of the parade ground, he was walking normally.

  He apparently did not look completely normal, though, for Iefan rose from the bench one of the sentries had placed against the gate for him, his dark eyes widening. “They said field punishment. You look like you’ve been dragged through the desert for a month.”

  “I feel like it, too,” Neil told him. “What are you doing here, Iefan?”

  “I put Mairin on the ship for France and dashed back here to speak to you,” Iefan said.

  Neil took in the sober expression in his eyes, then glanced at the sentry, who was doing his best to hide his curiosity. So he gripped Iefan’s arm. “I’m taking a cab home to pack my valise. I can’t walk any better than you right now. Let’s talk on the way.”

  The only cab they could find was an old open top coach, which gave them no privacy. When Iefan learned that Neil was about to board a train for Northallerton, he declared that he would ride with him. “I’m heading for France after that,” Iefan said. “I should already be there. Northallerton will cut a chunk off the journey and you look as though you need propping up.”

  They did not settle down to speak until they had the train compartment to themselves and the train was puffing its way out of the station. Iefan poured a shot from his hipflask and pushed it across to Neil.

  Neil took the brandy gratefully.

  “What did you do to deserve this?” Iefan asked. His tone said he was asking out of professional curiosity, not morbid interest.

  Neil thought up and discarded a dozen different lies and half-truths. Finally, he shrugged and said, “Blanche’s husband is my superior officer. He prefers to keep her to himself.”

  Iefan sat back, his brow lifting. “Does the man have reason to want to keep her to himself?” There was no judgement in his voice.

  “He did not. Not at first. Now, though…” Neil grimaced. “He hit her. I don’t know if it is the first time.”

  “Because of you,” Iefan said flatly.

  “Yes.”

  Iefan considered. There was no shock in his face. No judgement. His expression was thoughtful. “You can’t walk away, now. You’re responsible for anything else which happens to her.” He sighed. “So why are you on this damn train?”

  “Seymour wanted to court martial me for threatening him with a weapon. The Provost Marshall argued him down to field punishment, because the charge was ridiculous. Only…it isn’t that ridiculous.” Neil held the cap of the flask toward Iefan. “Perhaps the man senses how I feel about him and knows everything he’s accusing me of could well be true if circumstances were but a little different.” He scrubbed at his hair.

  “The Williams temper. It sounds as though you should be congratulated for not letting fly to this point. So, Northallerton and bleating sheep, to put distance between you and trouble. It isn’t a bad plan.” Iefan screwed the cap back upon the flask.

  “It wasn’t a plan at all. I just had to get away. I suspect that as long as I am not in Newcastle, Blanche will be safe enough. Hunter will make sure Seymour knows I have left the town.” Neil considered Iefan. “What made you dash back to Newcastle, Iefan?”

  “A most fortuitous piece of timing. An old French army comrade I know from before the Siege, Joshua Price—do you know the name?”

  Neil smiled. “You ran with a different lot than I…than all of us.”

  “A fact I’ve come to regret, although it just paid dividends in a most unexpected way. I was going to look into this when I reached Paris, for I know where all the old records are kept. Only, I ran into Joshua Price in Paddington Station. He was with the French Foreign Regiment.”

  “Your Regiment. They were one of the regiments who fought the Prussians to a standstill in the last days of the siege, weren’t they?” Neil asked.

  “They were, although I was sent to Algeria before the siege ended. Price was there until the end. I bought Price dinner last night and asked him some rather pointed questions.” Iefan uncapped the flask and took a deep mouthful of brandy and recapped it. “Have you by chance seen the daguerreotype Blanche has of her father?”

  Neil shook his head.

  “He’s in uniform. The 17th regiment de marche, which was at the front with the Foreign Regiment. I know the French military. I know the uniforms, especially those from before the Commune, and there was something wrong about Bonnaire’s. So I asked Price about it.” Iefan grimaced. “Price knew Bonnaire. He remembered the name and who the man was.” He hesitated. “Bonnaire was in military prison. He was charged with cowardice at the outbreak of the war, for refusing to fire upon the Prussians. Toward the end of the siege, he and the others in prison were given a choice.”

  “Fight or die,” Neil murmured.

  Iefan nodded. “They were given uniforms, a rifle was put in their hands and they were shoved to the front lines. Bonnaire did die defending Paris, Neil, only he didn’t do it willingly.”

  Neil rubbed his temple. “Blanche thinks her father is a hero.”

  “He is a hero. He gave up his life defending others. Only…” Iefan grimaced again. “I was in the house barely an hour and I could see how much she has come to…to worship the man. Mairin says I should leave well enough alone. Only, if it were me, I think I would want to know every facet of the man I looked up to, not just the flattering ones.”

  “Yet you’re not sure enough to tell Blanche yourself,” Neil finished.

  Iefan gave a self-conscious laugh. “Mairin has taught me that my judgement is not always sound, especially when it comes to slippery affairs like this one. Truthfully, I do not know Blanche all that well. She was always one of the little ones, tripping me up at family gathers. Later…well, I wasn’t at many of the gathers, later on.” The same note of regret tinged his voice.

  “You don’t mind being entangled in the family dramas, now.”

  “I did, once,” Iefan admitted. “They don’t seem as melodramatic now because the people involved are…” He glanced through the window at the trees whizzing past at a steady thirty miles an hour. “I care about them,” he said, his voice low.

  Neil rubbed at his temple once more. The lack of sleep was making the bones in his face ache and his thoughts to fracture. “I just want peace and quiet,” he muttered.

  “In Northallerton, you shall have it,” Iefan intoned.

  Chapter Ten

  Neil slept from the moment he was shown to a bedroom and closed the door, until late the next morning.

  When he rose and made his way do
wnstairs, the butler, Warrick, seated him at the dining table and a footman served him an enormous breakfast. He was the only one at the table.

  “Everyone else is about the estate, Major Williams,” Warrick said. “Although, Mr. Thomsett is working close to the house today and may stop by.” He moved away with a dignified pace.

  Neil ate while listening to the grandfather clock tick in the hallway behind the dining room. No one stirred in the house. The servants’ area was well insulated against sound, for he could not hear the banging of crockery and other domestic sounds which he presumed a big house would echo with, when no other noise masked it.

  His breakfast done, Neil wandered the big house, drifting from public room to public room, of which there were plenty. It was not a pretentious house—there were muddy boots by the front door, children’s toys scattered across rugs, a basket of mending on a side table. The domestic touches and the comfortable rather than elegant furniture gave the house a friendly, warm atmosphere which Neil decided he liked.

  He found himself in the astonishingly large, high-ceilinged and airy library, with its second-floor gallery, ladders, islands of sofas and lamps, rugs and cushions. Something unlocked in Neil’s chest and loosened.

  He realized with a start that he missed books. He had grown up playing in the great library at Innesford and the smaller library in the townhouse in London. He had been able to read the words by four years old and comprehend most words by seven. Reading had been a constant companion for many years. Only, somehow, he had got away from the habit. The perils and burdens of command and the paring down of personal possessions to take with him to the colonies had severed the connection.

  Neil wandered the shelves, picking up and examining titles, flipping pages and reacquainting himself with forgotten authors and tales, essays and more.

  He realized he had been standing still and reading steadily for long minutes. He took Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations back to the nearest sofa and settled at one end. He was still there when Jasper strolled in, sometime later.