Soldier of Fortune (12 page)

Until
the horrors of the voyage, Abigail Piper had always considered herself to be
blessed by good fortune. She was born into a wealthy family, had a social
position and the relative freedom to develop her interests. As the younger
daughter, she was inevitably at a slight disadvantage with her sister but she
had learnt ways to circumvent Dorothy and to escape her vigilance. Throughout
her life, there had been so many instances of sheer luck falling into her lap
that she began to rely on it. The latest example was the crowning one. Fate had
delivered the perfect man with whom she could fall in love. In her fevered
mind, Daniel Rawson was the embodiment of good luck.

During
her pursuit of him, chance favoured her at every turn. She and Emily Greene not
only found amenable travelling companions whenever they needed them, the
cavalcade invariably contained carts and wagons. The two women were often
invited to tether their horses to the back of a cart so that they could travel
with a measure of comfort. To someone like Emily, this was a godsend as her
thighs and buttocks were already tender from the little riding she had done.
Abigail, too, availed herself of the opportunity to get out of the saddle for a
while. Progress was not fast but it was steady.

The
inns at which they spent the night were serviceable if noticeably short of any
refinements. Emily was amazed how quickly her mistress adapted to the meaner
conditions. Having lived in comparative luxury all her life, Abigail had never
had to sleep on a lumpy mattress before or wash in public or eat unappetising
food. One night, they were even forced to sleep under the stars but there was
no complaint from Abigail. Each day took her closer to the man she loved and
that was all that mattered to her.

When
they reached Bedburg, they parted company with one group of travellers and
immediately found another, heading south towards Bonn. There were fifteen of
them in all, making the journey in three carts or on horseback. The men were
armed and there were enough of them to ward off a potential attack. Abigail and
Emily hitched their horses to one of the carts and climbed aboard. The driver
was a friendly man in his late thirties with a solid frame and a pleasant face
fringed with a fair beard. His name was Otto and he knew enough English to have
a conversation with his two guests. While Abigail sat beside him, Emily was in
the back of the cart, perched on something that was covered by a tarpaulin.

'Why
are you going to Bonn?' asked Abigail.

'I
keep the promise,' replied Otto.

'Promise?'

'To
my wife, I swear it.'

'Oh,
I see.'

'Marthe,
she was born there.'

'Are
you going home to her?'

'No,'
he said with a forgiving smile. 'I take Marthe there.'

Abigail
looked around. 'But she's not with us now.'

'Yes,
she is.'

'Where
- is she one of the women in the other carts?'

He
shook his head. 'I promise that Marthe, she will be in Bonn buried beside her
mother.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'In the back, the coffin is.'

'Goodness!'
cried Emily, jumping up as she realised that she was actually sitting on the
dead body of Otto's wife. She moved further back to sit down. 'I'm so sorry,
sir. You should have told us.'

'Marthe,
she will not mind,' he said. 'A good woman, she was.'

It
took time for the Abigail and Emily to get used to the idea that they were
sharing the cart with a corpse. Otto was a talkative man. He turned out to have
borne arms in a German regiment that had fought against the French the previous
year, an injury to his foot ending his reluctant career as a soldier. Abigail
pressed him for detail.

'Did
you ever meet the Duke of Marlborough?' she inquired. 'Father says that he's
the most brilliant commander in Europe. He has outstanding people under him. I
don't suppose that you ever came across a Captain Daniel Rawson?'

'No,
no,' said Otto.

'Captain
Rawson is with the Duke of Marlborough's Foot.'

The
German looked at her. 'But he has two feet, no?'

Abigail
giggled. 'That's Captain Rawson's infantry regiment,' she explained, taking
pleasure from saying Daniel's name for the third time. 'He's a very brave
soldier. The Duke admires him greatly.'

'I
did not like it, being the soldier.'

'Why
not?

'From
my wife, it take me away.'

'Did
you kill any Frenchmen?' wondered Emily.

'The
musket, I fire many times. Maybe, someone I kill.'

'How
long do you think the war will last?' asked Abigail.

'For
ever,' said Otto with resignation. 'France, she never stops wanting the more.
Always fighting, her army is, always will.'

'The
French could be defeated by British heroes like Captain Rawson.' Otto looked
sceptical. 'They could,' she added stoutly. 'The Duke of Marlborough is
resolved to win a famous battle against the French. I heard that from Captain
Rawson himself.'

Otto
was not convinced. He had the world-weary air of a man who had seen too many
armies marching to and fro across his native land. Lapsing into silence, he
drove on. They continued on their way, following the course of the River Rhine
as it snaked southwards. It was late afternoon when the weather broke. After
rolling along in the sunshine, they suddenly found themselves at the mercy of
driving rain and a swirling wind. Since they had little protection from the
downpour, they had to find the nearest shelter they could. When they came
around a bend and spied an inn ahead of them, therefore, they were unworried by
the fact that it looked weather-beaten and almost ramshackle. It was a refuge.

The
horses were stabled but the carts had to stand out in the rain. Though she was
distressed to see that Otto left his wife's coffin under the tarpaulin, Abigail
did not feel that it was her place to protest in any way. The man had been kind
and avuncular to them. As the natural leader of the travellers, it was he who
discussed the sleeping arrangements with the landlord and haggled over the
cost. He seemed to be arguing with the man on behalf of Abigail and Emily, pointing
to them and raising his voice in a demand. A sly, shifty little man with
straggly grey hair and a beak of a nose, the landlord tapped his walking stick
angrily on the floor.

When
Otto came over to them, he was very apologetic. Because the accommodation was
so limited, the travellers would have to share beds. What he had managed to do
was to secure a private room for Abigail and a place in the attic for Emily.
Neither of them liked the idea of being split up but they soon found that
Abigail's room was more like a large broom cupboard than a bedchamber. Emily
saw that she would have to sleep in the attic but, before she left her
mistress's room, she took the trouble to sweep away some of the cobwebs and
check that the bed was habitable.

Over
a hot meal and plenty of ale, the travellers had a jolly time and the Germans
soon burst into song. Abigail thanked them for the way she and her maid had
been welcomed the group and she had a special word of gratitude for Otto. As
the ale flowed more freely and the songs grew more raucous, the Englishwomen
made their excuses and retired early to bed. Emily was soon asleep in her dingy
attic room but Abigail stayed awake to write in her diary by the light of a
candle. The jollity was still continuing down below when she finally blew out
the flame and lay back to think about Daniel Rawson.

An
hour later, Abigail drifted quietly off. It was as well that she was a light
sleeper because it was not long before the latch was lifted on her door and a
heavy footstep made a floorboard creak. Coming awake with a start, she sat bolt
upright and peered into the gloom.

'Who's
there?' she asked. 'Is that you, Emily?'

Before
she could say another word, a hand was clasped over her mouth and she was
pushed back down on to the bed. A man's body pressed down on top of her and she
could smell the ale on his breath. Struggle as she did, Abigail could not move
him.

'Like
her, you are,' said Otto, laughing softly in the dark. 'Just like my Marthe. To
me, be good. Tonight,
you
are my Marthe.'

Abigail
was distraught. He was too heavy to be moved and too strong to fight off. Worst
of all, his free hand was starting do take the most alarming liberties,
stroking her hair, squeezing her breast then trying to pull up her nightgown. A
refined young lady who longed to surrender herself to Daniel Rawson was about
to have her virginity snatched cruelly away by a drunken German widower.
Abigail Piper's run of luck had come to a grinding halt.

When
he moved his hand from her mouth, she dared to hope that he had relented but
all he wanted to do was to take a long, hard, bruising kiss from her. The taste
was disgusting. Her stomach lurched, her blood ran cold and she began to
tremble all over. As his tongue became more invasive and his hands more
predatory, Abigail thought that she was about to be sick. Desperation made her
do the only thing she could think of. Twisting her head slightly to the left,
she bit deep into his lower lip and felt his blood spurt across her face.

Otto
bellowed in pain and rolled off her, hitting the ground with a thud. The noise
brought two people running to see what had happened. First through the door was
the landlord, his candle lending a dull glow to the sordid scene. Realising
what had happened, he began to wave a walking stick at Otto and abuse him in
high-pitched German. The second person to arrive was Emily Greene and she did
not waste any words. When she saw her mistress, hunched up in bed, shielding
herself with a pillow, she grabbed the stick from the landlord and used it to belabour
the midnight lover, hitting him with such force that he begged for mercy and
crawled out of the room on his hands and knees. The landlord went after Otto to
remonstrate with him. Annoyed that she had not been there to protect her
mistress from the assault, Emily shut the door and put her back against it.

'Fetch
our things,' said Abigail, still shaking. 'We're leaving.'

Emily
was practical. 'It's the middle of the night, Miss Abigail.'

'Do
as I tell you -
please.'