Judith Arnopp
When I was a lad I had a
nursemaid, Cora. She was a grim faced Scott with slapping hands and a virulent
tongue but when I was hurt or sick she lifted me onto her lap to cradle me
against her bosom. Throughout my infancy
she became a haven from childhood terror, her personal scent of starch and
syrup of figs synonymous with love. Years later, near Brussels in
1815, I sheltered beneath a dripping hedge and, while the other men dreamed of
a soft bivouac in the arms of a warm and willing whore, I thought of Cora and
the safety of my nursery.
It had been a
hell of a night, starving hungry, with no hope of food, we retreated through
sodden fields, impeded by rain and French snipers. Stray cannon balls fell
sporadically, demolishing the earth, blowing up my friends, scattering us. We marched on, some of us losing our boots in
the muck but with bloody feet we ploughed on until it was too dark to see.
Although the
skies suggested otherwise it was mid-June. The rain trickled down my neck and
seeped into my boots making me as miserable as hell. I was captain of the 52nd
Oxfordshires and that night we could neither keep dry nor warm ourselves. The
fire produced only sulky flames and an awful lot of smoke while our feet, sunk
in glutinous mud, ached with cold. One
of the chaps had an umbrella, a woman’s one with a frilled edge and we’d all
jibed him about it earlier in the day but now there was not one among us would
not have sold his mother to be as dry as he.
The faces of
my fellows were lit only by the glow of their cigars. We squatted on sheaths of
straw to keep out the worst of the mud and, although I longed to straighten my
stiff legs, I was reluctant to move for I knew that the few inches of ground
beneath my arse was the driest spot left in the whole God-forsaken world.
Further along
the hedge someone began to sing a song about a sailor and a mermaid.
‘Sing something drier, mate,’
some wit yelled from the ranks and, after a few moments he began again, this
time the disturbing words of The Minstrel Boy. We sat quietly listening.
The minstrel boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death ye will find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betray thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
In the ranks of death ye will find him;
His father's sword he hath girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him;
"Land of Song!" said the warrior bard,
"Tho' all the world betray thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!"
In the silence
that followed a staccato of coughs attacked my neighbour, Jack Mullins. ‘Not
long til mornin’ now, sir,’ he said. ‘Me blood is froze. I hope we see the sun
today.’
I looked toward the pinkening
skyline and saw that Jack was right; dawn was approaching.
The next day
the sun shone down so hot that the mud dried into a crust on our faces and in
our hair. It was hard to believe we had
ever been cold or wet in our lives and some of us even began to complain about
the heat. We spread our tunics on the hedge and gulped down a hurried breakfast
before firing our muskets and rifles to ensure they were dry and clear of mud.
Soon after that the French guns began, devastating the lovely morning.
The bright
skies darkened with smoke and all natural sounds were obliterated, no birdsong,
no rustling breezes, just din and death and disaster. I had fought alongside
Wellington all across the peninsular but I’d never heard such noise, or seen
such sights as I saw that day. It was as if hell had vomited all of its horrors
onto the once green slopes of Hougoumont.
As the
Frenchies marched toward us we formed the familiar tight square, muskets
screaming, bullets flying, our targets obscured by drifting, acrid smoke. I didn’t aim my weapon but just closed my
eyes, firing round after round, trying not to notice my comrades falling about
me. Quickly, we tightened the square,
closing the gap, reforming over the dead and dying. We just kept shooting, no time for thinking,
no time for fear. Aoon the French we had killed began to pile up, forming a
protective barrier through which the living could not pass.
But still the
big guns continued, igniting the house and barns that we were supposed to be
defending. Cannonballs landed among us
in a nightmare of blood and screaming as we reformed our ever-diminishing
square until, inevitably, throughout the afternoon we were driven further and
further back toward the farmhouse.
From within
the barn we heard screams of terror. Mullins, his face white beneath the blood and the grime, wiped his
streaming eyes. ‘That’s our wounded,
that is, sir, they’re burning alive, God help ‘em.’ He coughed, trying to
disguise his sobs.
‘And God help us, Mullins.’
I
turned back to the field, shouldered my rifle and killed another Frenchie.
We were driven
against the burning walls and had to retreat back from the west gate. I stood up and screamed at my men to take
cover in the gardener’s house. We were
fighting hand to hand, swords clashed, bayonets sank into yielding flesh,
musket butts crashed into skulls and, all the time, cannon balls hailed down.
Bent double, we leapt over dead men, slipping in the trailing guts of blasted
horses, clambering over broken cannon wheels and abandoned carts.
I led them
past the burning windows of the big farmhouse, the blazing carcass of the
stables scorching us, sizzling the hair on our heads and then we burst through
the door of a small house. I slumped
against a wall, the breath ripping in my throat and my men crashed in after me,
taking immediate positions at the windows. I took out my flask, the welcome
burn of gin restoring my mind, kindling my courage. My chest heaved. I wiped a
sleeve across my brow. There were just
twelve of us left and a good few already wounded.
A sound from
below the stairs. The men froze as I shouldered my gun and got up, stalking
across the room to kick open the door. A
civilian, late forties and a small girl cowered among buckets and brushes. The girl’s eyes were huge, her pupils
dilated, her father held her tight against him, mouthing a prayer. He babbled something in French; he was the
gardener, they’d left it too late to get away.
‘Stay there,’
I said and kicked the door closed again.
They were
everywhere, filthy blue clad Frenchman running in the yard, bayoneting those of
us that had fallen beneath their artillery.
I ran my tongue about my mouth, summoning saliva, lifted my gun and took
my position near the door. With shaking hands, I waited. The din outside
increased as the big guns improved their range, cannon balls landing, shaking
the house, blowing out the windows. We
maintained a steady volley of fire but, step by step, moment by moment, they
grew nearer until I could see their filthy faces, their shredded uniforms and
blood-matted hair.
A great scream
and a figure burst through the door, leaping into the air, legs flying. Time
slowed to reveal the cold hatred of my enemy suspended above me. I saw fear; I saw blood; I saw my
killer. A woman in a nankeen jacket and
baggy trousers, her long tangled hair running like blood over her shoulders, a
torn tunic, a glimpse of breast, a gaping mouth, stretched cheeks, her bayonet
as remorseless as her pity.
I curled
before her, put up my hands to shield my head. ‘Cora!’ I whispered, the name a
hopeless prayer.
***
I opened my
eyes and saw nothing. After a moment I
remembered the wild Frenchwoman, the flash of her blade, the snarl of her red
mouth. I did not think I was dead. I blinked but saw only darkness, heard only
silence. My throat was parched. I tried
to cough but only managed to croak.
A light touch
on my arm, a soft voice, the gleam of a candle.
She smelt of starch and syrup of figs and, sliding a strong arm beneath
my head, she held a cup to my lips. Water.
When I had taken enough I tried to put up a hand to signal her to stop
but, to my horror, I saw that my arm was no longer there.
She rustled
away, brought the candle closer and let me see the shattered remains of my body
and, when my tears came, she took me onto her starched bosom and let me weep.
©copyrightJudithArnopp2015
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