When the notion had first come to him, he thought that would be all for the best, not that he should be killed but that if he were, Merry should be completely free of him. But Robert found he could not bear the idea. He wanted Merry to remember him and to cherish that memory. And, as the French cavalry and dragoons came into sight, he cursed the fixation on military duty that had made him leave her that last night without a word or touch of love.
Esmeralda should have saved her tears. What she had seen and endured thus far was child’s play to what was to come. For some reason unknown even to his closest associates, Sir John decided that forced marches were necessary. Since the draft animals were already on short rations—because it was impossible to obtain fodder in the barren, snow-covered country through which they were passing—they began to drop in their tracks from exhaustion. As soon as an animal failed, it was shot, partly to keep it out of the hands of the French. Half the time Esmeralda rode with her eyes closed to escape seeing the pathetic corpses.
But soon there were more pathetic ones. The women and children who had been riding on the baggage wagons were the next to go. Inadequately clad and shod, some clung to their refuges until they froze to death. Others tried to follow the army, only to drop by the wayside, victims of fatigue and cold. One day—later Esmeralda calculated that it had been the afternoon of January 5, but at the time she had no idea of the date—she saw a woman fall near the top of a rise they were just beginning to ascend. More than half an hour later, when they passed that spot, she was still there. Esmeralda told M’Guire to see if a short rest, riding instead of walking, would help her.
For her, it was too late. She had probably actually died on her feet, still struggling onward. M’Guire brought the reason for her struggle to Esmeralda with tears freezing on his cheeks.
“‘Twas tryin’ to suck, mistress,” he said, choking, “an’ her colder’n clay.”
“Oh my God,” Esmeralda whimpered, taking the infant and wrapping it in her furred cloak. “God have mercy on us all.”
They did their best, although they dared not stop for more than a minute or two at a time. They had no milk or bread, of course, but Carlos cut a hunk of flesh from a still-quivering ox, and they pressed the blood into snow that Esmeralda melted by holding a tin cup between her breasts. To this they added sugar, and Esmeralda dribbled the mixture into the baby’s mouth, but its breathing was already very bad, and it died a few hours later while they were still struggling along the road. M’Guire did his best to bury it when the company of Guards stopped for a half hour of rest, digging through the snow to the frozen earth with his bayonet, The grave was very shallow, but at least the little corpse was not exposed to the carrion eaters.
They had not plumbed the depths of horror yet. Just before the dusk, Molly’s mule failed. It had been the weakest of the three animals, but all of them looked at Boa Viagem and Luisa and saw that they, too, were nearing the end of their strength. M’Guire shot the mule, and they went forward, all on foot now, even Esmeralda. An hour later Carlos collapsed. Esmeralda dropped beside him with a cry of despair, but he had only fainted.
When roused, Carlos denied emphatically that he was sick, and this seemed true, for Esmeralda could feel no sign of fever, but she could not be content, and continued to question him until he confessed that he was nearly starving. He had been giving all his food, except the meat, which she would not eat, to Luisa. Her tears over the mother and baby barely dried, Esmeralda wept anew. What fodder they had was doled out unevenly, the larger portion to Boa Viagem. No one had questioned the division, not even Carlos, for it was known that mules were hardier than horses and could stand deprivation better. The only thing Esmeralda had forgotten was Carlos’s devotion to Luisa and the effect on him the shooting of the draft animals would have.
“How stupid I am.” Esmeralda sobbed. “Why should Luisa carry what we no longer need? M’Guire, get the packs off her. We can discard the dishes and the water bottles and most of the pots. Everything but the food, the blankets, and Captain Moreton’s clothes can go.”
Molly had sunk to the ground, her face gray and her breathing labored, but she began to push herself to her feet to help M’Guire, whose hands were clumsy with cold. Esmeralda shook her head and went to help him herself. She did not mind the work at all, but she was worried by Molly’s quiescence. It was not like her to allow Esmeralda to work while she sat. Perhaps Molly, too, was nearing the end of her endurance.
They had just about finished piling everything that could possibly be discarded by the side of the road when a sergeant of the company with which they traveled came plodding back.
“Ye must move on, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sore sorry, but ye must not stop to rest now. If yer servants canna keep up, they must stay.”
“No, no,” Esmeralda replied, “we are coming. I only stopped to lighten the load on the mule.”
They repacked in frantic haste, the sergeant standing by and watching. It seemed to Esmeralda that if she had said Carlos or Molly could go no farther, the man might have forced her on without them. Carlos was no problem. With so much baggage discarded, he could ride Luisa until his strength was a little restored, but Molly… Esmeralda glanced at her fearfully from the corner of her eye and tears started to trickle down her face again. But all through the night, somehow, with little rests riding on Boa Viagem and Luisa, Molly managed to keep up. It was already faintly light when she moaned through gritted teeth and said, “Oi must stop. Oi’m sorry, ma’am. Ye’ve done yer best, but ye must leave me now.”
Esmeralda, placing one foot in front of the other like a puppet without conscious volition, stopped and turned to look at her. Esmeralda was not crying anymore, not because there were no tears left but because her mind was so numb. There is a point beyond which horrors cannot be absorbed, and the scenes they had passed, unable to help, had equaled and outdone the dead mother and child left behind. Even the Guardsmen were failing now, steady old soldiers falling out, some of them literally dropping dead on their feet.
“Put her up on Boa,” she said dully.
It was not a good time for it, as she had dismounted only ten minutes before when the mare had stopped and stood trembling, obviously near foundering. Esmeralda had pulled Boa forward, and the horse had managed to walk with no weight on her, but she was still shaking and swaying. Luisa was in little better condition and was already carrying Carlos, who had fallen again and was obviously incapable of walking.
“’Tis not thit,” Molly gasped. “’Tis th’ baby comin’.”
“No!” Esmeralda cried, jerked out of her numbness by a more personal horror. “Not here! Not now!”
But Molly had sunk to her knees and did not answer. M’Guire knelt beside her, tears running down his face. Wildly, Esmeralda stared around, but all she saw were splotches of dirty red on the clean white snow, marking the places where men lay exhausted, dying, or dead. There could be no help for them in this desolation, yet these were her people. Somehow she must find something, but she was so tired herself that she did not know for what to look. And a rising sense of horror and despair was making her even less capable because, no matter how dreadful the things were that she had seen and heard up to this point, she did not know the people who lay dead or too exhausted to move, slowly freezing. This was different. This was Molly. Could she even think of leaving Molly to bear her child in the freezing snow, to die with the infant in her arms?
The horror of that thought made Esmeralda’s mind whirl. She would not willingly leave Molly, no, but she might be forced away. The Guards had their orders. Mrs. Moreton was to be brought safely to Corunna. As long as she kept up, no one questioned how, but if she dropped out someone would come seeking her. She had already been told she would not be permitted to wait for her servants, and she was sure that if she said her horse had failed, another would be found for her even if one of the officers had to walk. Molly groaned again, and M’Guire put his arms around her, crying, “Whut’ll I do f
or ye?”
Again Esmeralda’s eyes searched the landscape. The panic in M’Guire’s voice was catching, and desperation focused her previously unseeing eyes. Down the slope, not far from the road, were the remains of a small house. Hide. The word came with sensible meaning. They could conceal themselves in the house until Molly’s baby was born. Esmeralda was sorry for the anxiety she would cause the officers responsible for her, but that was insignificant compared with Molly being left behind.
“Can you carry her, M’Guire?” Esmeralda asked. “Look, down there, the house. I’ll help if I can—”
But M’Guire had already picked up Molly and was staggering toward the haven Esmeralda had indicated. She followed, dragging Boa Viagem, fearing each step would be M’Guire’s last. Although he was the strongest of them, he was also the only one who had walked every foot of the way. And he had put out the most effort of any of them, for in addition to walking, he had lifted each of the others on and off the horse and mule innumerable times.
He just barely made it, sinking exhausted on the doorstep, but with Esmeralda’s help, Molly managed the few steps through the gaping doorway into the interior. The marauders had been there before them. Not a stick of furniture nor a door remained. Even the floorboards had been ripped up in some places, whether for firewood or in search of hidden valuables, Esmeralda did not know or care. She only noticed because the floor sagged crazily so that she and Molly nearly fell.
Having managed to ease Molly down without disaster, Esmeralda ran out again. M’Guire was lying where he had dropped, sobbing with effort and fear, for he loved his wife. Seeing his helplessness, Esmeralda hesitated, panic rising in her again. She pressed her hands to her mouth, trembling on the edge of collapse herself, but was saved by the sight of Carlos staggering toward her with his arms full of blankets, topped with a small white package—the baby linen.
The whirling world steadied. With the blankets to keep her warm, perhaps Molly and the baby would live. They were not starved. Molly would have milk. Hope renewed Esmeralda’s strength, and she ran forward and seized the blankets and bundle from Carlos.
“Take Luisa and Boa around to the back where they cannot be seen from the road,” she said to Carlos. “Then, if you can, help M’Guire inside—but it is more important that you keep yourself and the animals out of sight.”
She did not take the time to explain. The need to hide Luisa and Boa Viagem was obvious. They might be seized by stragglers or even by legitimate authority to draw supply carts, not that they really would be of much use, owing to their condition. In any case, their presence would draw unwelcome attention to the house, and Carlos might even be recognized by a Guards officer searching for Esmeralda. M’Guire lying on the doorstep was less important. So many men littered the roadside that another body, seemingly collapsed seeking shelter, would hardly be noticed.
As she made her way past M’Guire into the house again, a new fear shook Esmeralda. Aside from helping her onto the blankets, she had not the faintest idea of what to do for Molly. But as it turned out, she had no time to do even what she intended. As she entered the room, Molly screamed, “Take the baby! Take it! ‘Tis out!”
Esmeralda dropped everything and threw herself forward onto her knees. Molly had turned up her skirts, under which she was naked, and between her wide-spread thighs Esmeralda saw a tiny black head and narrow shoulders. Before she could think, her hands had gone out to support the little body. Even as she grasped it, the rest of it slithered out as Molly gave one last push, gasping with pain and effort and relief. For a moment, Esmeralda simply knelt where she was, paralyzed between wonder and terror and not knowing what to do, for the baby was still attached to its mother by a long slippery cord.
“Turn ‘t over,” Molly whispered. “Turn ‘t over, head doon, ‘n give ‘t a slap.”
Fortunately Esmeralda was so numb that she obeyed. She was far too afraid of dropping the slippery little creature to think of much else, and it was just as well she was concentrating so hard on holding it, for she might have dropped it in disgust when it gagged up a mess of slime or in astonishment when after that it suddenly let out a lusty squall.
“’Tis aloive,” Molly breathed.
“Oh, it certainly is,” Esmeralda assured her. “It’s squirming like anything.”
“Lay ‘t on me belly,” Molly instructed, her voice growing stronger, ‘nd pull me skirts over ‘t. Then ye’ll need t’ find a knife t’ cut th’ cord.”
With mingled relief and regret, Esmeralda placed the baby as Molly had instructed and rose to her feet. It was a horribly ugly creature, red and wrinkled, with spidery limbs and a misshapen head, but it pulled at Esmeralda’s heartstrings nonetheless. She felt dazed, and repeated to herself, “A knife. A knife,” until the words suddenly took on meaning. “A knife,” she said aloud, frightened again. “Where will I find a knife? We left all the cutlery by the road.”
“For what do you want a knife, senhora?” Carlos asked in a trembling voice, staring at Esmeralda’s hands.
“To cut the cord of Molly’s baby,” she said, smiling for the first time since they had begun this nightmare trek. “Don’t be frightened by the blood, Carlos. Molly and the little boy are both alive.”
“Thank God! Oh, thank God,” came M’Guire’s voice from behind her. “God bless ye, mistress, God bless ye. For whut ye done this day, I’ll die for ye, so I will, I swear it.”
“I would prefer it if you would stay alive for me, and for Molly, too,” Esmeralda replied, still smiling, but even as she was speaking, a frown replaced the smile. “Do you have a knife?” she asked anxiously. “I think it is very important to cut the cord.”
M’Guire shook his head and started to struggle to his feet. “Me bayonet—” he began, but Carlos was already holding out his knife.
Esmeralda took it almost reluctantly, alarmed again about being responsible for something which, if done wrong, would have dire consequences, she was sure. However, on returning to Molly, she found that the cord no longer trailed inside the new mother. There was a horrible mess on the floor to which it was attached. Esmeralda recoiled.
“‘Tis th’ afterbearing,” Molly said. She sounded almost normal and had recovered sufficient strength to push herself a little distance from the worst soiled part of the floor. “Ye need not touch it. Jist pick up th’ cord ‘n cut it. Now toy a knot in it. Thin turn th’ little un over ‘n toy anither close ‘s iver ye can t’ his belly. Whin ye’re sure that’s toight ‘n sound, cut th’ cord agin not far from it. Soon ‘s Oi cin find a bit o’ silk threat, Oi’ll toy ‘t off closer.”
The instructions were easier to give than to follow. Esmeralda found tying knots in the resilient, slimy cord no easy thing, and cutting it, even with Carlos’s sharp knife, was not simple, either. The baby, who had quieted when placed on Molly’s belly, began to squall again when Esmeralda handled him. Nonetheless, she could not help smiling once more as she struggled to follow Molly’s directions. There was something very wonderful about the arrival of the new little creature in the world, despite the mess that surrounded it.
Molly had fallen asleep with the baby at her breast the moment Esmeralda handed him to her when she finished cutting the cord. For a minute or two, Esmeralda stood looking at her, knowing she should try to rouse her so that they would not fall too far behind and become stragglers themselves. But she could not find the strength. Her last reserves had been expended in acting as midwife. Orders or no orders, she could go no farther. She dragged two blankets over Molly, wrapped another around herself, and sank down into a blessed unconsciousness. Her last thought was that she would probably freeze to death, like the pathetic women and children they had seen, but she no longer cared.
Fortunately, despite his temporary collapse, M’Guire was not as exhausted as his wife or Esmeralda. He moved both women together and wrapped them up, brought Luisa and Boa Viagem into the house to add the heat of their bodies, and took up the broken floorboards with
which he made a fire. Then he and Carlos huddled together under the remaining blanket, but M’Guire propped himself against the wall so that discomfort roused him as soon as the worst of his exhaustion had passed.
It was late afternoon when he woke and shook the others awake. By then they were far behind their escort. Esmeralda should have been in despair, but the enforced rest had done her good, and she was able to think. The rear guard, she knew, was a full day behind the main body of the army. Thus, they were in no danger from the French until the rear guard passed. The worst danger they would have to face were the renegades from their own army, but that might be reduced by attaching themselves to any company that was marching in reasonably good order. She handed Carlos his portion of food and sent him out to watch for such a group and in the meantime, suggested that M’Guire make another fire. They would eat and give all the remaining fodder to the animals.
“Wherever we are going cannot be far,” she said. “Even Sir John cannot expect men to march for much more than twenty-four hours without rest.”
This conclusion, reached more out of hope than out of reason, was quite correct. Before M’Guire had got his fire going, Carlos came running back to tell Esmeralda that he had seen a file of men in good order just coming over the rise. There was little to pack. M’Guire lifted Molly to Luisa’s back, Esmeralda mounted Boa Viagem, and they came out to the side of the road and waited. When the company was close, Esmeralda rode forward and explained who she was and what had happened. The captain was courteous, but not enthusiastic. If they could keep up, he said, he would do his best for them.
Had any of them known how close they were to Lugo, where Sir John had halted the army, Esmeralda would not have bothered to wait for a company in good order and the captain would have been warmly welcoming in the hope of making a friend in high places. Still, they were all satisfied with the outcome when they arrived about an hour later. One more unpleasant task lay before Esmeralda—reporting herself to Colonel Wheatley. However, he was so glad to see her alive and well that his strictures on her foolishness were minimal.
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