Brothers at Arms (24 page)

When Joshua and Charlie entered the sick room, Sergeant Percival greeted them with a grin. “Powerful stuff, that was, but it took a fourth and fifth dose to make sure.”

“I thought she said…”

“Three, yes, but I never could count, and I had to make sure he’d had enough. Now I know.”

The time they spent at the inn seemed interminable, but by the end of the first week, Joshua was wishing for his tutor’s recovery for different reasons. His initial fear of Dr Hawley’s death had receded, together with the uncertainty of being in a strange country. Now, the reasons were personal.

His top clothes smelled musky from the odours of their surroundings, and in the summer heat, his sweat-stained linen beggared description. He had never wished so much for a bath in his life. He knew Charlie felt the same, although they said little on the subject. A wry smile and wrinkled nose was more expressive than a dozen words.

At Sergeant Percival’s request, they made few demands of the innkeeper, accepted cold water for washing and eked out their supply of clean linen. Joshua vowed he would never again take so much for granted. The clothes cupboard in his dressing room at Linmore was neatly stacked with shirts, and linen was taken away to be washed almost before it was worn. He had so much, and yet here there were children in the village with ragged clothes and hardly a shirt to cover their backs. To flaunt such wealth to them was unthinkable.

He thought about it when he wrote in his journal. Every day, he recorded the happenings he intended to tell Aunt Jane.

Dear Aunt Jane. Another week has passed and we are still in the little mountain village.

He stopped, not wanting to cause alarm at home by telling about the problems. It was better to turn things around and make them sound humorous.

I do not know which one of us smells the worst. Charlie insists he holds the record, but I have my doubts. You may wonder why we do not change our shirts more frequently, but the truth is the servants are too busy caring for Dr Hawley, to worry about our needs.

We try to make one shirt and neckcloth last five or six days, so you can imagine the noxious state they are in when we change. It’s lucky we don’t have the same sense of our consequence as my brother. He would never cope with it.

The frugality of their use of linen was in sharp contrast to the number of failed attempts Matthew Norbery’s valet regularly made whilst trying to achieve a reasonable effect in neck cloths.

You must not think it is a hardship. Sergeant Percival has arranged for women in the village to attend the washing, but they can only do so much. The sickroom linen must come first, and Dr Hawley’s recovery is slow.

“Don’t let go of too much linen, in case we need to leave in a hurry.”

That was what the guide actually said.

Whilst the two menservants did most of the daytime caring, the former soldiers-cum-grooms took turns to sit through the night. Others in the group slept in the barn with the coach and horses, to see nothing went astray. Joshua and Charlie wanted to help, but Sergeant Percival limited their time in the sickroom to a couple of hours a day.

“I know you mean well, young sirs,” he said, “but it would serve no purpose to have you in the same situation as Dr Hawley.”

In the absence of any skills in healing, they read to the tutor from Virgil and his favourite book of sermons. For a time, they did not know if he could hear the words, but gradually they sensed his awareness and derived comfort from doing something useful.

Time was long and food scarce, so when Sergeant Percival sent two of his men out to shoot rabbits, the lads went with them. It was a relief to find something for which life at Linmore prepared them. They came back refreshed by the exertion and satisfied with their endeavours.

They returned, two hours, six rabbits and four pigeons later, to find their tutor suffering a relapse, caused by septic wounds from the bloodletting physician’s practice. The gypsy remedy put paid to the original fever, but now they needed more supplies, which took another week to resolve.

Wishing to do something useful, Joshua offered to use money from his own pocket to pay for extra help, even going so far as to suggest he and Charlie practised their Greek language skills in the negotiations. To his surprise, Sergeant Percival declined.

“I know your offer is kindly meant, Mr Joshua, but I don’t want either of you two young gentlemen going out talking to any females.”

“But why?” they asked as one.

“This is a poor area, and some of the women might be tempted to offer you all kinds of services for money, and then we’d have their menfolk chasing us all out of the village before we’re ready to leave.”

It was obvious, from the expression on the soldier’s face, this did not relate to the washing of dirty linen. Joshua sensed that the book of sermons would hold the answer.

Despite the frustration of having so much time to spare, and being restricted in what they could do, it seemed strangely companionable to sit in a flea-ridden inn, contemplating supper, smelling like a couple of tramps.

They did not complain, for the food was better some days than others. Several of the former soldiers had a flair for foraging. They went out three at a time to exercise the horses, and came back with bulging knapsacks. The contents usually guaranteed them a couple of meals with meat on the plate, then stew or a thin broth from the bones.

Pigeons and rabbits formed much of their diet, but on a good day the foragers might acquire eggs or poultry from a farm, and once, some river fish, which tasted like trout. It was a rare treat.

There was plenty of bread, but not the kind they ate at home. This was dense and dark, and took a lot of chewing, but at least it was filling, for it sat an unconscionably long time in the belly.

Tonight, the innkeeper shuffled into the room and placed a bowl before them on the hardwood table. It was always the man. The young maidservant they saw on their arrival seemed to have vanished without trace.

The first hint of tainted aroma told Joshua the rough-made vessel contained an indeterminate broth-like liquid. With luck, there might be a handful of herbs tossed in to mask the floating globules of grease, and a chunk of black, bitter-tasting bread on the accompanying platter.

It was just as well the low-beamed ceilings and little slits for windows prevented them from seeing the contents; otherwise, it was doubtful if they would swallow a mouthful.

Joshua stirred the lukewarm mess of potage, trying to force himself to fill his spoon and raise it to his lips. His belly rumbled in protest, anticipating the onslaught it was about to be dealt. Then he listened to Charlie, slurping one spoonful after another down his throat without a thought. He watched for a full minute and then said, “Do you like this stuff?”

“No,” Charlie scarcely stopped long enough to answer, “but an empty belly’s worse than this. My pa told me a soldier takes what he’s offered because every meal might be his last.”

Feeling ashamed, Joshua broke off pieces of bread and soaked it in the broth. After a minute or two, he gulped it down. Charlie was right – it was almost palatable, probably a third time rendering from the rabbit carcases. When he had drained the bowl and mopped it clean, he said, “I wonder what the others eat, out in the barn.”

“From what Gilbert was saying, they have army rations; a bowl of gruel, a crust of bread and some broth every day.”

The knowledge of how little others had to eat stunned Joshua. It was no good complaining. They wanted to learn about army life on the road, and their tutor’s illness gave them first hand knowledge. This was the reality.

Descriptions of poverty could wait until their return home. What did it matter if the grease and smoky atmosphere in the tavern permeated their clothes? The hardships for people in the village were worse.

There was no colour. Everywhere Joshua looked, poverty showed its weary face. Old and young alike wore faded cloth, frayed to the point of destruction, and boots held together around splitting soles and gaping holes. Even at his dirtiest, he would never be in this state. Until now, it had never occurred to him to wonder if families in Linmore Dale lived in such poverty. He hoped not.

He thought back to the first day when they went out to shoot rabbits. A group of ragged children followed and vied with each other to pick up the carcases – anything to earn a reward. Their eyes looked so sad, he was tempted to dispense a coin to each in the group, but the former soldiers warned against it.

“If you give five of them a coin today,” said Edwin, one of the grooms, “there’ll be a dozen waiting tomorrow, and every time they see you. I doubt you carry that amount of money.”

“He’s right,” Fredrick, the outrider, a one-time dragoon, agreed.

Joshua knew they were right, but he still wished he could.

“Are we lost, Sergeant Percival?” Joshua wanted to know.

Most evenings, Sergeant Percival came to sit with them in the tavern room, to drink a cup of coffee, and play cards by candlelight. Often, one or two of the soldiers joined them, while the rest of the men stayed outside with the animals. It was a friendly division, with different people every night, but Joshua and Charlie were rarely alone.

Percival concentrated on blowing cool air across the surface of his steaming cup of coffee. Then he looked up and said in a quiet voice,

“Yes, but only in the sense of having taken a wrong turn down in the valley. Once we did that, there was nowhere to turn around, so we came on, but I think we will probably pick up the right track about a couple of miles from here. The road to Thessalonica, I mean.”

“But not by the route Dr Hawley intended. It can’t be, because the storm blew the ship off course, and we went inland further down the coast to Tirana.”

The guide glanced at the two soldiers sitting beside him, then back to Joshua.

“Having guessed half of it right, you might as well know the rest. The storm was providential, because it meant the professor could not argue with me about the direction we travelled. I never intended taking you the way he said.”

Joshua and Charlie listened in amazement.

“Dr Hawley’s notions about travel didn’t take into account the political situation. It is my job to keep you safe, and Tirana was no place for you to go. The city belongs to Ali Pasha, and he’s more trouble than you lads would want in a lifetime.”

“Who’s he?” said Charlie.

“He was the son of a brigand warlord. Now, he is a very powerful man, who contrives to serve his own ends, and the Ottoman Empire.”

“I thought you said there were bandits in the hills.”

“So there are, and pirates on the sea and slavers as well, down the coast; but Pasha’s Court in Tirana is worse than any of them – for reasons you don’t need to know. As soon as the professor is fit to travel, we will make our way to the capital.”

“Does Dr Hawley know this?”

The soldier gave a wry smile. “Your tutor is an idealist, and I doubt he was aware of the hazards, even before he was ill. If he wants to believe this is the road to Skopje, then I’ll not argue, if it keeps him happy.”

“But we are in Macedonia – aren’t we?”

Sergeant Percival smiled at Joshua’s persistence.

“No, we are not,” he said. “We’ve been in Greece all along, but if it makes you feel any better, we will cross the Macedonian border before we get to Thessalonica. I’ve arranged to send your father a report from there, and collect any messages from him. Then we will go to Athens.”

How could they explain to Dr Hawley? He would never forgive them.

“Let me show you where we are,” Sergeant Percival said, spreading out the map on the table, and tracing the route with his index finger.

“We’re in this region here.” He jabbed a point on the track. “The border is probably within twenty miles of here, and the capital, anything up to fifty miles beyond. How long it takes depends on a lot of things: Dr Hawley’s recovery, the weather and the horses.”

“What have the horses to do with it?” said Charlie.

“Having so many in one place attracts attention. The animals need food and exercise, just as we do; which is why I don’t intend staying here too long. We could either lose the lot, or end up eating them.”

“But it’s so quiet here. There’s nobody about,” Joshua said.

“Oh yes there is. They are up in the hills, watching our every move. Their spyglasses catch the sunlight. The lads saw them when you went out shooting rabbits. We post guards at night, because if the horses disappear, we might find ourselves walking to Thessalonica. In that case, anything could happen…”

A cold shiver of realisation touched Joshua’s spine. Sergeant Percival did not say the people in the hills were brigands, but that was what he meant. This might not be Macedonia, but there was still danger in this remote place.

“Tomorrow, the lads will go foraging for enough food for another few days. Then I want to be on the move, at least down into the valley. If things hadn’t been so desperate, we would have moved long before now.”

“Is there anything we can do to help, Sergeant Percival?”

“Yes,” the guide said. “You can ride in the small coach tomorrow. It is the best way to exercise the horses without drawing attention to the fact. The drivers can find fodder for the animals, and bring extra sacks of flour and oatmeal. All I ask is you keep out of sight and let them do the talking.”

On the way back, Joshua asked the coach driver to stop at the little stone-built church, on the edge of the village. Inside was a single room, with lime-washed walls. An alcove stood at one end, with a tiny altar and wooden cross. The sight filled them with a profound sense of peace and tranquillity.

Joshua dropped to his knees, bowed his head and without thinking, the right words came to mind.

Dear God, please help Dr Hawley recover his strength, and… Bless Sergeant Percival for keeping us safe.

Charlie’s prayer echoed his own, and as they left, each placed a silver coin in the offertory box. It was the least they could do.