The Battle

France 1813

The battle was over. The two armies, age old enemies, France and England, buried their dead and marched away, neither side dissuaded nor discouraged from their purpose.

The battle was over. But for Lillian it was just beginning.

Father was dead. She saw his body with her own eyes; eyes which refused to shed the storm of tears which threatened to break in her chest. He looked peaceful, lined up among the other dead, his scarlet coat hiding the stains of blood underneath. According to one of the soldiers who had been close by during the battle, her father was killed in the first volley of French fire. Lillian refused to dwell on the pain and agony he must have suffered while she was back with the wives and children, unaware of his injury and, in any case, unable to do anything for him.

Lillian identified her father, “his remains” the sergeant said, and turned away when the clods of earth began to fall, filling in the mass grave with military efficiency.

A few days later, Lillian stood beside a pot of stew which bubbled above a small camp fire, lost in her own black thoughts. What was she going to do now that Father was gone? Some of the army wives kindly looked out for Lillian and her young sister in the two years since their mother died, but Lillian knew she would soon run out of Father's pay and she would not presume on those who had been so kind to them.

It started out as a lark, this life of "following the drum." When she was fifteen and her sister, Dolly, just three years old, their mother announced one morning in their tiny London flat that they would join their father where he was serving in France. The girls were excited by the thought of travelling to France, of seeing their father - going on an adventure. Little did the girls know that that decision was made out of financial desperation. Their mother could no longer afford to feed and house them all, so she scraped together what she could and the three set off to join the British army as it pursued Napoleon.

Camp life was fascinating at first. There were other families there, from choice or need. Some women were there because they could not afford to go elsewhere. Others simply did not wish to be separated from their husbands. Many made a little extra money by taking in laundry or cooking for the soldiers. Of course, there were many others, beggars and whores, swindlers and pick-pockets, and Lillian knew they were there, but with her mother's and the other ladies' watchful guidance, she never came into contact with the unsavory side of camp life. By the time their mother died, a year after they arrived in camp, Lillian knew where it was safe to go and where she could not go, even in the safety of daylight.

Lillian shivered as a gust of wind driving dry leaves before it struck her. Winter was coming, and this thought did nothing to improve her depressed spirits.

She turned with a smile, though, when a small girl appeared and ran toward her.

“Dolly! Where have you been?”

Lillian sat on a small stool and pulled her sister within the circle of her arms.

“Lily, you didn’t say hello to Muffy.” Dolly held up a bundle of dirty rags, her constant companion, for Lillian to greet. The singular advantage of such a shapeless heap was that it could become any creature of Dolly’s imagination. One day it might be a kitten, the next a tiny dragon. Whatever it was, though, it was invariably named Muffy and Lillian was always required to greet it with enthusiasm.

Lillian looked at the bundle and resisted the urge to wrinkle her nose. Today, with one dirty corner sticking out like a snout, the bundle looked revoltingly like a rodent.

“Hello, Muffy,” Lillian said, determined to be cheerful.

Swiftly she changed the subject.

“Listen, Doll,” Lillian said, smoothing the girl’s brown curls, “would you go and ask Mrs. Foster for a bit of meat for our stew? She offered some yesterday and it's just what we need to make our stew really delicious.”

Dolly skipped away and Lillian settled to her glum reflections again. She glanced around at the surrounding tents and realized that most of the other women were gone to get water, leaving the immediate area largely deserted. The solitude suited her mood, though; in fact, camp life tended to be noisy and cramped, so solitude, being rare, was particularly welcome.

Lillian was so entirely absorbed in her thoughts that she did not hear the rustle of dry leaves as footsteps approached her from behind.

Lillian stifled a gasp as a hand tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her upright. A man’s face was thrust against her cheek, his rough beard painful on her skin.

“’Ello, Miss Lillian,” the man said in a seductive growl. His rancid breath washed over Lillian and she shivered in revulsion.

“Oh, shiverin’ in delight already?” the man chuckled. “I ‘eard about your dad. Now that leaves you all alone, don’ it?”

Lillian pushed against the panic rising within her and forced her mind to slow its racing. She didn't recognize this man, but, then, it was difficult to distinguish one soldier from the next based on his breath. The way rumors flew about the camp, it was hardly surprising that tales of a lone female would catch the attention of a certain class of men.

In truth, she had half expected this ever since her father was killed. Three years in an army camp had taught her that eventually some man would take advantage of her lack of protection. She was, therefore, prepared.

Lillian’s left arm and head were immobilized in the man’s grasp. Her right arm, though, was free, and that was enough.

Slowly she slipped her hand through the opening in her skirt and into the pocket which hung around her waist. Her fingers curled around the butt of her father's small, silver pistol.

The man glanced around nervously to be sure the camp was still empty. He saw the small tent which Lillian and Dolly shared. Perfect. "Now, don't go makin' any sudden moves, poppet." His left hand wandered down Lillian's neck and plucked at the collar of her gown. "We're going to move nice and slow and you can show me your...eh...treasures...in the tent."

Using surprise to her advantage, Lillian drew her pistol, twisted slightly against the man's tenacious grip, cocked, and shot.

The man's grip loosened and he stared at her, eyes wide in surprise.

“What the…?” He looked down and saw blood spreading across the gray of his grimy shirt.

“You shot me?” He seemed amazed rather than distressed.

They were frozen in a horrible, deadly tableau. The soldier looked at the woman, the realization of death dawning on his face. The woman stared at the soldier, her knuckles white on the smoking pistol.

The soldier swayed and fell to his knees, pushing against Lillian. Lillian stumbled back over the stool and felt herself falling toward the fire.

Suddenly, strong arms lifted her free of both fire and dead man’s grasp.

Lillian gasped and looked into the face of another soldier. But Lillian knew without being told that she need not fear this soldier. Some part of her brain registered a square-set jaw, a crooked nose and sympathetic gray eyes.

“Th-thank you,” she said. The man set her on her feet. “I shot him.” Lillian began shaking as the realization of what she had done sank in.

The man removed his scarlet coat and slung it around Lillian's shoulders.

"I shot him," she said again.

"I know. I saw what happened, but I was too late." The soldier, a lieutenant, pulled the stool to the other side of the fire and gently pushed Lillian onto it.

"Too late," Lillian said. "Too late to save your friend?"

The lieutenant looked surprised. "No. Too late to protect you."

"Oh." Lillian stared into the fire. The lieutenant knelt beside Lillian, pried the pistol out of her numb hand and set it on the ground beside her. Lillian looked up with a lopsided smile. "I guess I can protect myself."

The lieutenant chuckled. "So you can, Miss FitzJohn. But you may need me around to pull you out of the fire occasionally." He reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, brushing her cheek in the process.

Lillian smiled, warmed and fascinated by the man's gentle touch.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the dead man's leg. Her smile faded and she shivered. She looked back into the fire.

"I shot him," she repeated. Her mind returned to the scene, replaying the crucial moments. She could not have done anything different, and yet she wondered if the man's commanding officer would see it that way. It would be her word, the questionable word of a camp follower, against the bloody death of a man serving in the king's army.

The lieutenant spoke slowly and quietly, hoping to prevent the shock he saw already affecting her. "Miss FitzJohn, I saw what happened. I will testify to anyone who asks that this soldier attacked you and you simply defended yourself. Miss FitzJohn?" Lillian did not respond. "Lillian?"

At the sound of her name, Lillian turned and looked at the lieutenant. Her brow wrinkled in confusion. "How do you know my name?" It was then that she realized he had known her name from the beginning. "Who are you?" she said, alarm rising in her voice.

"Please, don't be alarmed, Miss FitzJohn. I am Lietenant Grafton. Your father served under me. Before he died, he asked me to look out for his daughters, be sure no harm came to them. When I heard that he was dead, I intended to come and find you right away, but duties have prevented me." He looked grave. "I see now that I was wrong to allow myself to be put off from finding you. You might have been seriously harmed and I do apologize."

Lillian nodded slowly.

To be continued...