The Night Before Leaving

It was a drop of about fifteen feet, Jamie reckoned. He frowned slightly, imagining hanging with his hands from the mossy gray stone of this walkway between the castle keep and the main walls. Once over, he wouldn't be able to pull himself back up. He traced the path he would run over to the gorse bushes growing wild, unkept, inside the main walls. Brown eyes intent, undistracted, he searched the path for rough patches, branches, any pitfalls. It was in the field of view of the gate guards, but he could see them now, and they were looking outwards, not into the castle. He could probably make it. If he didn't break a leg in the fall. There was a servant's door there, he knew. Maybe not locked very securely - and he could work on it under cover.

And then what? Go home? Go and see Ginny, maybe? He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from the canvas bread-bag slung over his shoulders, shook one into his hands, and searched his pockets absently for a match, half smiling at the thought. No Sonny-Jim, he thought to himself. That's not the path you'll be taking tonight. But he was an experienced soldier - he liked to consider all the options.

Anyway, the light was failing now. Lamps and candles were already lit inside the Great Hall, and the various noises of kit being unpacked, and pallets set up, was filtering out to him, muffled slightly, but familiar and re-assuring. He couldn't find a match, and then suddenly remembered he'd left them in his great coat, with his haversack and blanket. He shivered, a sudden evening chill was coming on, and then looked back, grimly towards the bushes and the hidden door. Then, with a vigorous army curse, he slipped the cigarette back into the bag, and headed back inside.

'Like new recruits in their first barracks', Sergeant Leith had said, softly, with a slight shake of his great, grey-whiskered head. He was leaning against the doorway, just inside the hall, watching as the men prepared their beds and suppers, sorted through their gear. The sergeant was one of the few men in the room in full uniform this evening - except for his tall black bonnet, which he had no doubt billeted away somewhere safe. His red tunic was buttoned stiffly to the neck, and he wore both cross-belts and his sabre. Standing near him, Jamie caught the distinct smell of carbolic soap; the sergeant was a meticulously clean man, even on campaign, when the rest of the men, intent on survival only, and with limited facilities and no inspections, tended not to worry overly about hygiene, and their various billets accrued a very distinct smell of body odour. Despite the cold, Sergeant Leith was the only man in the room wearing a kilt - a privelege not afforded to privates. Everyone else wore 'grays', long grey trews.

Everyone was quieter than usual. Tomorrow they shipped for Lisbon, to fight against the French. Most of them were already as far from home as they'd ever been. Few had seen real combat. There was none of the usual horseplay they usually had in a new billet. Lit by the fire, one or two argand lamps and a few dim, fragile candles, the Great Hall of the castle felt almost like they were sleeping out of doors. Infantrymen, mainly young, boys really, wandered up to the windows, touching them with fingers, wiping the glass and looking out at the blank, grey-green walls. There was a dampness and a cold in this noble castle that you'd never have felt in any of their men's homes. Jamie shivered again. 'It seems colder inside that outside, never mind that fire', he said. 'Really?' Sergeant Leith's clear blue eyes expressed surprise, as if he hadn't even considered the possibility of its being cold. Despite being the only man in the room wearing a kilt, he seemed perfectly comfortable, leaning, lion-headed, and continuing to survey the room, as if looking for trouble. Suddenly, Jamie had the wild idea that the sergeant had been watching him, over on the walkway. Maybe that was why he'd stationed himself in the doorway like that? Then, he relaxed a little - he couldn't be tried for his thoughts, after all.

'I'd get some rest if I were you lad. It'll be a long march tomorrow.'
'Aye', Jamie nodded, and looking briefly at the older man. A longer march for you, he thought, wondering, not for the first time, just how old their sergeant really was. But there was no sign of weakness or worry there - the sergeant was a source of reassurance and strength to his men. God help us if we ever lose him, thought Jamie, picking his way over piles of kit, and sleeping bodies to where Robert had staked out a sleeping space for the two of them.


Robert Mckay looked up from cleaning out his musket-barrel as Jamie approached, and looked nervously around the room as if seeing it for the first time. He pulled out the brush, tipping bits of powder and dust onto his trousers, grey gaiters, and the dark flagstones. With a brief,'Oh, hell!', he brushed his trousers clean again, ignoring the mess on the floor. Sitting on his makeshift pallet, his knees seemed almost to be round his ears, and he grinned up broadly at Jamie.

'Where have you been? I was about to tell the Sergeant you'd deserted!'
'I nearly did', said Jamie. He almost shivered, saying that, though Robert didn't notice. 'Then I remembered that you had all the food!'

That was true. Robert had made a kind of den from all their gear, and they'd been issued with several days' supply of food. Beef and bread, wrapped in brown paper. They'd get more when they boarded the ship, but none before. Jamie's Brown Bess musket lay, with its cartridge pouch and brush, by the side of his pallet. For now, he didn't clean it, but touched it briefly as he sat down. Once on campaign, with the enemy close, he'd care for it like a newborn baby, going to great lengths to keep powder and pan dry in all weather, and cleaning it every night. And he'd conserve the sixty rounds of ball cartridge he'd been issued with. No wasted shots. When the fight came, it was as well to have a shot as well as your bayonet! Unlike Robert, he'd been on campaign before. He wouldn't be fighting tomorrow, though, just marching, and he had learned to conserve his energy as much as possible. Army food wasn't the best.

He quickly checked through his knapsack - two pairs of stockings, two shirts, overalls, spare shoes and shoe-brushes. His father's small wooden shaving box lay near the bottom, and he brought it out and left it near the top, so it wouldn't get damaged. That had been on more campaigns that he had!

Robert was in the half of young men that were eager for the battles to come. He saw himself as a hero, winning mentions in dispatches, perhaps medals. Every now and then he sighted along his musket barrel at some window or lamp, until someone shouted at him to watch where he was pointing 'that bloody gun!' Jamie smiled, a little sadly, and wondered whether that attitude would last beyond the first battle. For some, a few, it did. Those few tended not to return, though. Most, though, like Jamie, changed their focus to pure survival. He draped his blanket and great-coat over himself, fully dressed but for his boots, and prepared for sleep. From now, for the foreseeable future, he'd take life one day at a time, until he could finally come home.