Wall, Stone, Craft

by Walter Jon Williams

  She looked up at the sound of footsteps. Harry Smith walked up and nodded pleasantly. “I believe I have heard George give this speech,” he said.

  “So have I. Does he give it often?”

  “Oh yes.” His voice dropped, imitated George’s limpid dramatics. “He’s finished. He’s done. There’s nothing left of him now.” Mary covered amusement with her hand. “Though the tale has improved somewhat since the first time,” Smith added. “In this poor infantryman’s opinion.”

  Mary gave him a careful look. “Is he all he seems to think he is?”

  Smith gave a thin smile. “Oh, ay. The greatest cavalryman of our time, to be sure. Without doubt a genius. Chevalier sans peur et— well, I won’t say sans reproche. Not quite.” His brow contracted as he gave careful thought to his next words. “He purchased his way up to colonel— that would be with Lady Newstead’s money— but since then he’s earned his spurs.”

  “He truly is talented, then.”

  “Truly. But of course he’s lucky, too. If Le Marchant hadn’t died at Salamanca, George wouldn’t have been able to get his heavy brigade, and if poor General Cotton hadn’t been shot by our own sentry George wouldn’t have got all the cavalry in time for Vitoria, and of course if Uxbridge hadn’t run off with Wellington’s sister-in-law then George might not have got command at Waterloo... Young and without political influence as he is, he wouldn’t have kept all those commands for long if he hadn’t spent his every leave getting soused with that unspeakable hound, the Prince of Wales. Ay, there’s been luck involved. But who won’t wish for luck in his life, eh?”

  “What if his runs out?”

  Smith gave this notion the same careful consideration. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “He’s fortune’s laddie, but that don’t mean he’s without character.”

  “You surprise me, speaking of him so frankly.”

  “We’ve been friends since Spain. And nothing I say will matter in any case.” He smiled. “Besides, hardly anyone ever asks for my opinion.”

  The sound of Claire’s laughter and applause carried across the sward. Smith cocked an eye at the other party. “Boney’s at sword’s point, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Your turn for glory.”

  “Ay. If anyone will listen after George’s already won the battle.” He held out his arm and Mary took it. “You should meet my wife. Juanita— I met her in Spain at the storming of Badajoz. The troops were carrying away the loot, but I carried her away instead.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “You have a certain spirit in common.”

  Mary felt flattered. “Thank you, Captain Smith. I’m honored by the comparison.”

  *

  They moved to another part of the battlefield. There was a picnic overlooking the château of Hougoumont that lay red-roofed in its valley next to a well-tended orchard. Part of the château had been destroyed in the battle, Smith reported, but it had been rebuilt since. Rebuilt, Mary thought, by owners enriched by battlefield loot.

  George called for his pistols and moved the cuirass a distance away, propping it up on a small slope with the helmet sitting on top. A servant brought the Mantons and loaded them, and while the others stood and watched, George aimed and fired. Claire clapped her hands and laughed, though there was no discernible effect. White gunsmoke drifted on the morning breeze. George presented his second pistol, paused to aim, fired again. There was a whining sound and a scar appeared on the shoulder of the cuirass. The other men laughed.

  “That cuirassier’s got you for sure!” Harry Smith said.

  “May I venture a shot?” Bysshe asked. George assented.

  One of George’s servants reloaded the pistols while George gave Bysshe instruction in shooting. “Hold the arm out straight and use the bead to aim.”

  “I like keeping the elbow bent a little,” Bysshe said. “Not tucked in like a duelist, but not locked, either.”

  Bysshe took effortless aim— Mary’s heart leaped at the grace of his movement— then Bysshe paused an instant and fired. There was a thunking sound and a hole appeared in the French breastplate, directly over the heart.

  “Luck!” George said.

  “Yes!” Claire said. “Purest luck!”

  “Not so,” Bysshe said easily. “Observe the plume holder.” He presented the other pistol, took briefest aim, fired. With a little whine the helmet’s metal plume holder took flight and whipped spinning through the air. Claire applauded and gave a cheer.

  Mary smelled powder on the gentle morning wind.

  Bysshe returned the pistols to George. “Fine weapons,” he said, “though I prefer an octagonal barrel, as you can sight along the top.”

  George smiled thinly and said nothing.

  “Mr. Shelley,” said Somerset, “you have the makings of a soldier.”

  “I’ve always enjoyed a good shoot,” Bysshe said, “though of course I won’t fire at an animal. And as for soldiering, who knows what I might have been were I not exposed to Mr. Godwin’s political thought?”

  There was silence at this. Bysshe smiled at George. “You shouldn’t lock the elbow out,” he said. “That fashion, every little motion of the body transmits itself to the weapon. If you keep the elbow bent a bit, it forms a sort of a spring to absorb involuntary muscle tremors and you’ll have better control.” He looked at the others gaily. “It’s not for nothing I was an engineer!”

  George handed the pistols to his servant for loading. “We’ll fire another volley,” he said. His voice was curt.

  Mary watched George as the Mantons were loaded, as he presented each pistol— straight-armed— and fired again. One knocked the helmet off its perch, the other struck the breastplate at an angle and bounced off. The others laughed, and Mary could see a little muscle twitching in George’s cheek.

  “My turn, George,” said Harry Smith, and the pistols were recharged. His first shot threw up turf, but the second punched a hole in the cuirass. “There,” Smith said, “that should satisfy the Horse Guards that armor ain’t worth the weight.”

  Somerset took his turn, firing awkwardly with his one hand, and missed both shots.

  “Another volley,” George said.

  There was something unpleasant in his tone, and the others took hushed notice. The pistols were reloaded. George presented the first pistol at the target, and Mary could see how he was vibrating with passion, so taut his knuckles were white on the pistol-grip. His shots missed clean.

  “Bad luck, George,” Somerset said. His voice was calming.

  “Probably the bullets were deformed and didn’t fly right.”

  “Another volley,” said George.

  “We have an appointment in Brussels, George.”

  “It can wait.”

  The others drew aside and clustered together while George insisted on firing several more times. “What a troublesome fellow he is,”

  Smith muttered. Eventually George put some holes in the cuirass, collected it, and stalked to the coach, where he had the servants strap it to the rear so that he could have it sent to the Prince of Wales.

  Mary sat as far away from George as possible. George’s air of defiant petulance hung over the company as they started north on the Brussels road. But then Bysshe asked Claire to sing, and Claire’s high, sweet voice rose above the green countryside of Brabant, and by the end of the song everyone was smiling. Mary flashed Bysshe a look of gratitude.

  The talk turned to war again, battles and sieges and the dead, a long line of uniformed shadows, young, brave men who fell to the French, to accident, to camp fever. Mary had little to say on the subject that she hadn’t already offered, but she listened carefully, felt the soldiers’ sadness at the death of comrades, the rejoicing at victory, the satisfaction of a deadly, intricate job done well. The feelings expressed seemed fine, passionate, even a little exalted.

  Bysshe listened and spoke little, but gradually Mary began to feel that he was somehow included in this circle of men and that she was not— perhaps his expert pistol s
hooting had made him a part of this company.

  A female, of course. War was a fraternity only, though the suffering it caused made no distinction as to sex.

  “May I offer an observation?” Mary said.

  “Of course,” said Captain Austen.

  “I am struck by the passion you show when speaking of your comrades and your— shall I call it your craft?”

  “Please, Miss Godwin,” George said. “The enlisted men may have a craft, if you like. We are gentlemen, and have a profession.”

  “I intended no offense. But still— I couldn’t help but observe the fine feelings you show towards your comrades, and the attention you give to the details of your... profession.”

  George seemed pleased. “Ay. Didn’t I speak last night of war being full of its own kind of greatness?”

  “Greatness perhaps the greater,” Bysshe said, “by existing in contrast to war’s wretchedness.”

  “Precisely,” said George.

  “Ay,” Mary said, “but what struck me most was that you gentlemen showed such elevated passion when discussing war, such sensibility, high feeling, and utter conviction— more than I am accustomed to seeing from any... respectable males.” Harry Smith gave an uncomfortable laugh at this characterization.

  “Perhaps you gentlemen practice war,” Mary went on, “because it allows free play to your passions. You are free to feel, to exist at the highest pitch of emotion. Society does not normally permit this to its members— perhaps it must in order to make war attractive.”

  Bysshe listened to her in admiration. “Brava!” he cried. “War as the sole refuge of the passions— I think you have struck the thing exactly.”

  Smith and Somerset frowned, working through the notion. It was impossible to read Austen’s weathered countenance. But George shook his head wearily.

  “Mere stuff, I’m afraid,” he said. “Your analysis shows an admirable ingenuity, Miss Godwin, but I’m afraid there’s no more place for passion on the battlefield than anywhere else. The poor Inniskillings had passion, but look what became of them.” He paused, shook his head again. “No, it’s drill and cold logic and a good eye for ground that wins the battles. In my line it’s not only my own sensibility that must be mastered, but those of hundreds of men and horses.”

  “Drill is meant to master the passions,” said Captain Austen. “For in a battle, the impulse, the overwhelming passion, is to run away. This impulse must be subdued.”

  Mary was incredulous. “You claim not to experience these elevated passions which you display so plainly?”

  George gave her the insolent, under-eyed look again. “All passions have their place, Miss Godwin. I reserve mine for the appropriate time.”

  Resentment snarled up Mary’s spine. “Weren’t those tears I saw standing in your eyes when you described the death of the Inniskillings? Do you claim that’s part of your drill?”

  George’s color brightened. “I didn’t shed those tears during the battle. At the time I was too busy damning those cursed Irishmen for the wild fools they were, and wishing I’d flogged more of them when I’d the chance.”

  “But wasn’t Bonaparte’s great success on account of his ability to inspire his soldiers and his nation?” Bysshe asked. “To raise their passions to a great pitch and conquer the world?”

  “And it was the uninspired, roguey English with their drill and discipline who put him back in his place,” George said. “Bonaparte should have saved the speeches and put his faith in the drill-square.”

  Somerset gave an amused laugh. “This conversation begins to sound like one of Mrs. West’s novels of Sense and Sensibility that were so popular in the Nineties,” he said. “I suppose you’re too young to recall them. A Gossip’s Story, and The Advantages of Education. My governess made me read them both.”

  Harry Smith looked at Captain Austen with glittering eyes. “In fact— ” he began.

  Captain Austen interrupted. “One is not blind to the world of feeling,” he said, “but surely Reason must rule the passions, else even a good heart can be led astray.”

  “I can’t agree,” Bysshe said. “Surely it is Reason that has led us to the world of law, and property, and equity, and kingship— and all the hypocrisy that comes with upholding these artificial formations, and denying our true nature, all that deprives us of life, of true and natural goodness.”

  “Absolutely!” said Claire.

  “It is Reason,” Mary said, “which makes you deny the evidence of my senses. I saw your emotion, gentlemen, when you discussed your dead comrades. And I applaud it.”

  “It does you credit,” Bysshe added.

  “Do you claim not to feel anything in battle?” Mary demanded. “Nothing at all?”

  George paused a moment, then answered seriously. “My concentration is very great. It is an elevated sort of apprehension, very intent. I must be aware of so much, you see— I can’t afford to miss a thing. My analytical faculty is always in play.”

  “And that’s all?” cried Mary.

  That condescending half-smile returned. “There isnae time for else, lass.”

  “At the height of a charge? In the midst of an engagement?”

  “Then especially. An instant’s break in my concentration and all could be lost.”

  “Lord Newstead,” Mary said, “I cannot credit this.”

  George only maintained his slight smile, knowing and superior.

  Mary wanted to wipe it from his face, and considered reminding him of his fractious conduct over the pistols. How’s that for control and discipline, she thought.

  But no, she decided, it would be a long, unpleasant ride to Brussels if she upset George again.

  Against her inclinations, she concluded to be English, and hypocritical, and say nothing.

  *

  Bysshe found neither wife nor money in Brussels, and George arranged lodgings for them that they couldn’t afford. The only option Mary could think of was to make their way to a channel port, then somehow try to talk their way to England with promise of payment once Bysshe had access to funds in London.

  It was something for which she held little hope.

  They couldn’t afford any local diversions, and so spent their days in a graveyard, companionably reading.

  And then, one morning two days after their arrival in Brussels, as Mary lay ill in their bed, Bysshe returned from an errand with money, coins clanking in a bag. “We’re saved!” he said, and emptied the bag into her lap.

  Mary looked at the silver lying on the comforter and felt her anxiety ease. They were old Spanish coins with the head of George III stamped over their original design, but they were real for all that.

  “A draft from Har... from your wife?” she said.

  “No.” Bysshe sat on the bed, frowned. “It’s a loan from Byron— Lord Newstead, I mean.”

  “Bysshe!” Mary sat up and set bedclothes and silver flying. “You took money from that man? Why?”

  He put a paternal hand on hers. “Lord Newstead convinced me it would be in your interest, and Claire’s. To see you safely to England.”

  “We’ll do well enough without his money! It’s not even his to give away, it’s his wife’s.”

  Bysshe seemed hurt. “It’s a loan,” he said. “I’ll pay it back once I’m in London.” He gave a little laugh. “I’m certain he doesn’t expect repayment. He thinks we’re vagabonds.”

  “He thinks worse of us than that.” A wave of nausea took her and she doubled up with a little cry. She rolled away from him. Coins rang on the floor. Bysshe put a hand on her shoulder, stroked her back.

  “Poor Pecksie,” he said. “Some English cooking will do you good.”

  “Why don’t you believe me?” Tears welled in her eyes. “I’m with child, Bysshe!”

  He stroked her. “Perhaps. In a week or two we’ll know for certain.” His tone lightened. “He invited us to a ball tonight.”

  “Who?”

  “Newstead. The ball’s in his honor, h
e can invite whomever he pleases. The Prince of Orange will be there, and the English ambassador.”

  Mary had no inclination to be the subject of one of George’s freaks.

  “We have no clothes fit for a ball,” she said, “and I don’t wish to go in any case.”

  “We have money now. We can buy clothes.” He smiled. “And Lord Newstead said he would loan you and Claire some jewels.”

  “Lady Newstead’s jewels,” Mary reminded.

  “All those powerful people! Imagine it! Perhaps we can effect a conversion.”

  Mary glared at him over her shoulder. “That money is for our passage to England. George wants only to display us, his tame Radicals, like his tame monkey or his tame panther. We’re just a caprice of his— he doesn’t take either us or our arguments seriously.”

  “That doesn’t invalidate our arguments. We can still make them.” Cheerfully. “Claire and I will go, then. She’s quite set on it, and I hate to disappoint her.”

  “I think it will do us no good to be in his company for an instant longer. I think he is... ” She reached behind her back, took his hand, touched it. “Perhaps he is a little mad,” she said.

  “Byron? Really? He’s wrong, of course, but... ”

  Nausea twisted her insides. Mary spoke rapidly, desperate to convince Bysshe of her opinions. “He so craves glory and fame, Bysshe. The war gave expression to his passions, gave him the achievement he desired— but now the war’s over and he can’t have the worship he needs. That’s why he’s taken up with us— he wants even our admiration. There’s no future for him now— he could follow Wellington into politics but he’d be in Wellington’s shadow forever that way. He’s got nowhere to go.”

  There was a moment’s silence. “I see you’ve been giving him much thought,” Bysshe said finally.

  “His marriage is a failure— he can’t go back to England. His relations with women will be irregular, and— ”