Absolute Honour (35 page)

Jack smiled. Perhaps he had started that, when they’d spent that whole winter in a cave, covered in bear grease, using Jack’s
battered copy of
Hamlet
to teach Até English and Jack Iroquois; and it had turned Até into a fanatic! He quoted it ad nauseam and in any situation,
much to Jack’s annoyance. But the Dane had saved their lives, he supposed. Without the copy his mother had given him before
he went on campaign, what would they have done the winter long,
trapped by snow? Killed each other, he supposed. Instead they’d become brothers and quarrelled like any siblings. The debates
they’d had! Até saw the play as a story of redemption while, for Jack, it was a tale of vengeance …

A rabbit scurried down to the water and Jack carefully raised the rifle, sighted on its head. He had fired several shots on
the march, knew that the gun threw fractionally left. There was barely a wind so, at this range of some fifty paces, it would
not need to be compensated for.

‘Phew.’ He blew his lips out in explosion. The rabbit hopped away, disappearing into shrub. Vengeance, Jack thought. What
had Hamlet said? He stared up at the sheltering trees. Something about ‘greatly finding quarrel with straws, when Honour’s
at the stake. How stand I then …’ Jack lowered the rifle, draped the cloth he’d soaked over the barrel, a cool barrel shooting
more truly, and sighed. He had no ‘father slain’ but Sir James
had
been compromised when he’d tried to match-make for Jack. And his own honour
was
at the stake, from the moment the Irishman cozened him, tried to link him to …

Jack shook his head. He had tried to hate Laetitia. But he’d had plenty of time to think on the affair, in Rome and since;
its hectic, almost farcical beginning, its tragic end. The story belonged upon a stage, not in anyone’s life! Yet finally,
he had realized that she, as much as he, had been the pawn to another man’s ambitions. It was not Letty Fitzpatrick who had
dishonoured him but her cousin, Red Hugh McClune. The man had been his friend, they had caroused together, fought at each
other’s side, each saved the other’s life. It was what made the betrayal all the greater and what must be avenged – if he
could find him again, if he was indeed here somewhere, looking to do something ‘spectacular’.

The animal came with barely a sound, a buck, young but near to full size, sporting its first antlers. It strode to the water
hardly glancing around the little dell, fearing nothing,
bending to lap. Jack raised the rifle. He had oiled the mechanism so that it gave barely a sound as he cocked it though even
that click was enough to make the stag raise its head, glance towards him, open its magnificent tufted chest to him, expose
its heart.

‘My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth,’ thought Jack, breathing out on the line, squeezing gently.

The powder flashed, the gun jerked. The buck leapt straight up, snorted, turned its head and bolted the way it had come. Throwing
back his pine covering, Jack followed but at a trot, not a run. He could hear the animal’s flight, no attempt on its part
at stealth. He could not see it but he could see its signs, the earth churned by hooves, the spots of blood.

He found it slumped beneath an aspen a hundred paces further on. As he approached, it raised its head, antlers levelled; but
even as he walked up Jack could see life fading.

‘Go well, brother,’ he whispered softly in Iroquois as he knelt, holding a hand to the bloodied chest where a lead ball had
entered the heart. ‘I give you thanks for your sacrifice.’

The last light left the brown eyes. Jack stayed kneeling for a while, then reached into his satchel for his rope.

‘Do you think you might be able to use this, Corporal?’

Jack slipped the knots over his head and tipped the deer from off his shoulders onto the wooden slab. The bliss of having
that weight off him! He felt as though he might float to the ceiling of the wooden cookhouse, or collapse onto its floor,
so sore were his knees after the stumbling descent from the forest.

The cook of the third troop, who’d leapt in some shock at the sudden appearance of the beast before him, now stepped back
and whistled. ‘You did ’er, then, sir,’ he said, wiping his hands across his remarkably hairy and quite bare chest.
‘Right ’appy I am, even though I put a shilling to five to say you wouldn’t.’

Jack was barely surprised at the betting though a little at the shortness of the odds. It either meant that the cook was not
an adept gambler or that someone had been talking him up. Worsley probably. ‘I know it’s customary to hang it for a while
but—’

‘’Ang be bugger’d, beggin’ yours, sir. A young buck by its looks, and there’s ways of cookin’ it that’ll make ’un tender enough.
But the lads are that ’ungry, they’d eat yon while it stood and pissed against a tree!’ He looked up, a little doubt growing.
‘That is, if you ain’t reserving this only for officers, like?’

‘What’s the strength of the troop at present, Corporal?’

‘Well, we lost a couple of lads on Belleisle but we suffered less than t’others. There’s fifty-one, including non-commissioneds,
aside from officers.’

‘And how far will a buck like this go, less, let us say, the left haunch?’

‘With the best of the guts and the blood for pudding and all,’ the man pursed his lips, ‘it’ll feed sixty and give us stew
for three days.’

‘Good. A haunch for the mess tonight will suffice. Spread the rest as wide as you can. And tell the lads to give three cheers
for Her Majesty.’

‘I will, sir. And three for you as well.’

Jack shrugged with as much modesty as he could muster. ‘I’d be grateful, though, if you could set aside just a few choice
strips of belly flesh for me and dry them over the fire.’

‘Jerky, is it?’ Jack nodded. ‘Know the way of it, sir. I’ve some sugar to spare and I’ll pick wild sage for the coals to give
it some savour.’ He puffed out his huge bare chest. ‘Served in Canada five year mesself.’

‘Did you indeed?’ A bugle sounded outside and Jack
looked through the door to see part of the regiment riding past. ‘And if you could also set aside the antlers?’

‘A fine trophy indeed, sir. I’ll clean ’em personal.’

‘Thank you.’ As the cook started bellowing orders to his subordinates, Jack stepped out of the door and stood in the shade
beneath the thatched, sloping roof. The cavalrymen looked as exhausted as he after a morning spent in the hot sun, eating
dust. Most of the first two troops paid him no mind. Neither did Crawford, leading the third. But Worsley spotted him instantly,
raising his eyebrows. When Jack nodded, he let out a whoop that drew the attention of Bob Stokey – now Cornet Stokey once
again.

He glowered down at Jack who smiled back and, when the horse drew quite level, pulled at the shirt he was wearing. It gave
from his chest with a slight sucking sound, so soaked was it in blood. Stokey stared, shock, anger and bitterness chasing
each other across his bulbous features. The rest of the regiment had turned the corner but still he glared back so Jack stepped
further into the street and gave him the traditional two-fingered salute.

Later, he was lying on his bed, convinced he’d never get up again, when Worsley burst in. ‘You did it, sir. By God, I knew
you would.’

‘Is that why you bet against me with the cook?’

Worsley did not look abashed one jot. ‘That was just covering myself, like, for the fool took five to one. I made plenty more
from the ones who swore you could not do it and gave me eights.’ He beamed down. ‘Now, sir, in Devon, after a kill, there’s
many a lad, feeling so manly now, looks for a different kind of sport. So how’s about I fetch up my friend, Jocasta, who just
could not bear to see the regiment leave Abrantes without ’er. My shout, like, by way of thanks. She’s just below ’ere.’

‘Worsley, will you cease trying to pimp for me!’ Jack
bellowed. ‘I am perfectly capable of finding my own whores should the need arise.’

‘Oh, I’m sure you are, sir,’ the man replied, tongue wedged in his cheek.

‘But if you wish to show your gratitude there is something you could get me.’

‘Anything you like, sir.’

Jack regarded the blood and dust that covered him. ‘I cannot appear at the Queen’s feast looking like Banquo’s ghost. Can
you get me a bath?’

Though the taberna the officers had selected for their mess in Castelo de Vide was smaller than their former one in Abrantes,
the door swung open on an almost identical scene. True, the two lines of men that turned as Jack entered, late as ever, were
dressed better, for they were not clad in their casual frock coats but in their best uniforms, just as Jack was. But their
expressions as they looked at him were about the same; most bland, one glowering – Stokey, of course, glaring at the rack
of antlers Jack bore. The main difference of the table was that, at the president’s end where Major Somerville stood, no pot
of thin stew awaited. Instead the Major was poised, carving knife and fork in hand, over a steaming haunch of venison.

‘Nearly gave up on you,’ he snapped. Jack could almost see the drool gathering in his mouth. Indeed, the savour of roasted
meat brought an immediate rush of saliva to his own. ‘Take your place, man.’

Jack marched to the one empty chair but before he could sit, Somerville, laying down the cutlery, spoke again. ‘Gentlemen,
now we are all
finally
gathered,’ he called, and the officers rose to a man, bumpers to hand, ‘I give you the Queen’s Birthday.’

‘The Queen! God bless her.’ Bumpers were drained, swiftly refilled by scurrying servants. The wine was good, better than
at Abrantes, Jack thought. He was about to sit when he noticed no one else was. Somerville looked at him again and said, ‘And
I also give you three huzzahs for the man who provides the feast:
Lieutenant
Jack Absolute.’ ‘Huzzah! Huzzah! Huzzah!’

It had been a fine evening, infinitely superior to that previous one in food, drink and society. For the first, the deer haunch
was not as tough as Jack feared, the cook having stewed it first in some of the region’s sweet wine, then larded it liberally
with fat from some other source, which was not worth dwelling upon. The drink, too, as Jack’s first quaff had told him, was
better than before. And as for the company, only Glowering Bob, as Jack had by now dubbed him, remained frozen to him. The
rest, even Captain Crawford, thawed.

Jack was unable to avoid drinking when he was toasted – he was not going to give up these fellows’ estimation by not holding
his own – but he was moderate when unobserved, drinking far less than he had before.

Others, indeed most of them, were not so restrained. By midnight, those who had not rested their heads upon the table for
a doze were beginning to collect the stocks and jackets they had discarded when the action got boisterous. Jack, though tired,
was content for the moment just to sit. Many a night in Rome he had dreamed of such conviviality and he was not desperate
for it to end. Thus he was probably the only one sober enough to note the door that led to the
rest of the inn opening again. He stood swiftly because it was a rule for the night that, just in case a lady should enter,
the regiment’s officers must be upstanding at all entrances. The last one on his feet would be forced to drink a bumper, which
accounted for Glowering Bob’s recumbent position under the table; he’d spent too much time staring malevolently and had paid
the forfeit once too often.

No one else noticed the man who came in. He remained in the doorway, one hand upon the wood, taking in the scene. He was wearing
a pale-blue hunting jacket, a ruffled shirt and a waistcoat of emerald-dyed silk. It was the quality and cut of the clothes
that reminded Jack who the man was, rather than the face. John Burgoyne was probably the only regimental commander who actually
took his tailor to war with him.

‘Lieutenant-Colonel Commandant Burgoyne in the mess!’ Jack bellowed.

Few stirred. Major Somerville only raised his head from the table to say, ‘Bugger off, man. Enough of your japes,’ before
lowering it again.

‘Actually, Hugh, the fellow’s quite right.’

The voice was low-pitched, warm yet carried. It brought everyone to their feet, some swifter than others. Only Stokey lay
still.

Somerville was desperately trying to put on his jacket. ‘Sir! Colonel! I am most sorry, we—’

Burgoyne waved away his blusters. ‘Nothing to apologize for, my good man. ‘’Tis the Queen’s Birthday and I was hoping to be
here to spend it with you. Portuguese roads, alas. But I trust you have all done the regiment credit with your celebrations?’
He was peering down at the debris on the table, his gaze finally falling on the much-hacked haunch of meat. ‘Great Christ,
what’s that?’

‘Venison, sir.’

‘Venison, be god? I suspect I’ve tasted nothing meatier
than rat in a week.’ He was still wearing riding gauntlets, which he now jerked off and threw down. ‘Any left?’

Somerville lifted his knife dubiously. ‘I may be able, sir—’

Burgoyne sat at the middle of the table. ‘Never mind that, just fling the carcass here,’ he said. When it reached him, he
twisted the end bone from its socket and threw the smaller piece to a hitherto unnoticed officer who had followed him in.
‘You all remember my adjutant, Cornet Griffiths, do you not?’

The young man bobbed his head then set to upon meat and marrow. Meanwhile, Crawford had poured a bumper and handed it across.
Burgoyne nodded his thanks, sipped and gnawed.

Somerville cleared his throat. ‘May I assume, sir, that the fact that you are here means, uh—’

‘That we are finally going into battle? Indeed you may.’

A muttering passed around the group of still-standing men.

Crawford leaned forward. ‘Would you be good enough to tell us where, sir?’

Burgoyne, still savaging the bone, swallowed. ‘Not now. There is much to discuss and we will all need clear heads to do so.
I, for one, am exhausted. All I will tell you is that we are to ride tomorrow, under cover of night, and that we are to ride
directly against the enemy the night after that.’ He stood, raised his glass. ‘Gentleman, I give you the Queen and her Sixteenth
Light Dragoons. Huzzah!’