A NINETEENTH-CENTURY WAR STORY
by Linda McLaughlin
On the eve of battle they wrote letters to their loved ones safe at home in England. When they were finished, the captain and the lieutenant exchanged letters, each one solemnly promising to see the final missives into the hands of the other one’s relatives should he fall. Then they toasted their pledge with captured French brandy.
Though the battle was won, both men were carried from the field, but only the captain survived. When his wound had healed sufficiently for him to travel, he sailed from Spain to England to convalesce. After reassuring his own family of his survival, he hired a post chaise to take him to Bath, where the lieutenant’s mother and sister dwelt. On the way he studied the miniature of his friend’s sister, Emma.
He arrived to find the modest townhouse draped in black, the knocker removed. But he had come too far to be turned away. Stiffly, he climbed the front steps and wrapped on the door with the head of his cane until it was flung open by the young woman whose portrait he carried. Though she was not a beauty by the standards of a shallow society, being too tall and angular, still a cloud of dark hair framed a delicate face while warm amber eyes looked at him directly without a trace of coyness or calculation.
Emma invited him in and received her brother’s last letters with trembling hands. “Tell me how he died. It was in the early afternoon, wasn’t it?
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I wasn’t just his sister, I was his twin. I often knew when he was in danger, or in pain. I felt his loss immediately.”
He took her hands. “He was a fine man. One of the best. And very fond of you.”
Their friendship began that day, she in need of comfort for the loss of her brother, her closest friend, and he in need of someone to help him forget the war. He couldn’t tell her that he was half in love with her already, but by the end of the summer, he proposed. She was reluctant at first to marry a soldier, for both her father and brother been killed fighting Napoleon, but finally she accepted.
The captain had one month to show his wife how much he loved her before he returned to his regiment. He kissed her one last time, leaving her with tears in her eyes and his seed growing in her womb.
* * *
On the eve of battle they wrote letters to their loved ones safe at home in England. When they were finished, the two captains exchanged letters, each one solemnly promising to see the final missives into the hands of the other one’s relatives should he fall. Then they toasted their pledge with captured Russian vodka.
Though the battle was won, both men were carried from the field, but only one survived. When his wound had healed sufficiently for him to travel, he sailed from the Crimea to England, then took the train to Bath. Stiffly, he climbed the front steps of the modest house and wrapped on the door. It was answered by a tall woman dressed in black.
Despite her grief, Emma received the young officer graciously. With sorrow and pride she listened as he told her of her grandson’s last moments in the never-ending cycle of war and death.
© 2004 by Linda McLaughlin
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED