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barefoot_bardTitle: December
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 10 January 2010
Summary: On the retreat to Corunna, a cavalryman makes a difficult choice. Spain 1808.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
The Spanish winter was fierce. It froze faces and fingers with cold, stinging eyes and noses with wind, covering everything with snow. On either side of the well-trodden road lay the bodies of men who could bear the cold and strain no longer. Whatever useful kit on them had long since been stripped away by the time Trooper Fletcher saw them. There was no point in dismounting to make any attempts at looting, though some men, more desperate than others, inevitably tried. It was a damned shame to lose men in such a way, he thought. Poor bastards. He shivered and flexed his fingers in an attempt to tighten his grip on the reins. If it was possible, it was colder on the back of a horse than it was on the ground. Fletcher wished he had not taken his heavy gloves off four days back, when he had dismounted during a brief halt to relieve himself. Some worthless beggar had stolen them from his saddle. Now his hands were impossibly cold without any protection from the wind and snow.
In the distance, a bugle blared. The notes echoed flatly in the wintry air and the exhausted, shivering troop showed little sign of having heard it. Only one thought ran universally through the dragoons' minds and that was to keep moving forward. With the French hard on their heels, there was no other direction to go in anyway. Hooves clumped dully over the frozen ground and a red-faced officer in a tattered cloak cantered past, heading for the head of the column. Fletched hunched his shoulders underneath his worn pelisse and tucked his chin down onto his chest. The wind was rising again. It would be another blustery night. They would have to stop soon and rest the horses, but Fletcher knew that to stop would be to lose what little warmth the poor creatures had.
"Check your flints," Sergeant Kingsley called out in a cracking voice. "Wake up, damn you lot. Check your flints."
Fletcher freed his fingers from the reins only with an effort. Check flints. They had skirmished with the French vanguard several times since leaving Madrid, which made it an increasing annoyance to be roused to alarm. The flint of his carbine was good, he found. He reached down and gave his mare an awkward, unsteady pat on the shoulder. A good lass, his horse. She had carried him reliably since Vimeiro, where his previous mount had been killed. That one had been a good horse too, in addition to being the first mount he'd ever had. He pushed that memory away. It didn't bear thinking about. The trumpeter was trying to call 'Form' on his instrument, but the cold metal had stuck to his lips. Sergeant Kingsley was obliged to shout the orders as best he could.
The troop stirred into a trot, however sluggishly, and followed the officer in the tattered cloak. Fletcher did his best not to sigh. He was numb with cold and weariness. Turning back yet another French attack was not something that interested him. There was virtually nothing that did. But he trotted his horse after the man ahead and tried not to think about the lack of feeling in his feet and hands. How far back were they going? The rest of the army was going in the opposite direction. Why they riding away from it? He shook himself. His brain was feeling uncomfortably numb, now.
Shots cracked out, ahead of them. A bugle blared again and Sergeant Kingsley shouted something in his worn out voice. The dragoon ahead of him spurred abruptly into a gallop and, without even comprehending, Fletcher followed suit. Why they were galloping now and what they galloping at... he had no idea. He gripped his carbine and shivered at the rush of wind as he and his horse raced over the rough, rutted ground. It was probably the French cavalry party, or some fast-marching infantry, or maybe it was nothing more than the fantasy of some frightened, half-frozen officer. Either way, the troop were in motion, drawing ever farther away from the army they were tasked with protecting.
His horse caught a hoof in a deep rut and stumbled, breaking her stride. Fletcher did not have time to blink before he was tumbling forward over his horse's head. How had he come so quickly out of the saddle, when it had felt he was frozen to it? The hard-packed dirt rose up to meet him with unforgiving suddeness and he cried out as his elbow struck first. Was it just his terrified imagination, or had that really been a crunch he'd felt in his elbow? It didn't bear thinking about. Then, an instant later, the rest of his body hit the ground and a more complete pain burst to life. His bearskin was gone from his head and he was lying almost upside down just off the road. Pain. Pain and cold. What was that warm feeling on his face?
There was a high-pitched shriek from close by, waking him up from the sleep that he did not remember falling into. How long had he lain here? Fletcher tried to push himself up to his knees, but his right arm buckled uselessly. He had to use his left to support his weight and he was not at all steady when he was at least on his feet. His horse was down, writhing on the frost-crusted earth. Her left fore leg flopped unnaturally. She had broken it on that poxy rut. That was both of them, wasn't it? With a grimace, Fletcher staggered toward her, taking care to stay out of range of her flailing hooves. He had no thought but to comfort the creature. Every other rational thought was gone completely from his head.
"Steady girl," he muttered, patting her neck jerkily. What to do? He had dropped his carbine when he'd been thrown. It was over there somewhere. No point in trying to find it, or even trying to move. His muscles were much too numb and sore for such exertion now. Nothing now but to wait. The rest of his troop should return this way soon. They would retrieve him and bear him away to safety. He could wait. Unless they had passed while he had been unconscious? Fletcher shivered. That did not bear thinking about. He was a dragoon. He could not be a prisoner.
Pistol. The word forced its way into his foggy brain and he fumbled with the straps on his saddlebag. He kept a pistol there. Didn't he? Yes. There it was. With stiff, white fingers, Fletcher drew the pistol out. It was probably still loaded. He hoped it was. The barrel was like ice when he pressed it against his temple. He would not be a prisoner. Never. Not him. If he had the energy for it, the tears would probably be falling. Or maybe they were and he simply could not feel them. It took much more effort than usual to curl his finger around the trigger, or so it seemed to him. But he could not muster that last bit of strength to finish the act. For several long, aching seconds, he held the pistol in his shaking hand, until at last he dropped his hand down to his lap. He did not have the singular will to carry the act through.
Not for himself, at least. His horse was still writhing and was in pain. What sort of dragoon was he to let his loyal mount suffer so? Fletcher sucked in a great breath, filling his lungs with frigid evening air. She had carried him since Vimeiro, through the attack on Madrid and during the ensuing retreat. Why would she have to come to her end here, on a road nobody knew of? It didn't bear thinking about. There was only one thing to think about, if he could not manage to put the ball into his own skull. It wasn't right to make her suffer so and he knew that.
"Steady girl," he repeated and put the muzzle of the pistol against the mare's head. The noise of exploding powder sent shards of icy agony into his brain but his horse was still now, her thrashings ended. Fletcher found that he could not move, except to relax his arm into his lap. That was it. His horse was gone and with her, any hope of escaping the relentlessly pursuing French army. A light snow was falling now and he thought he heard the steady thump of feet in the distance. Was it the French? He had no idea. But it didn't bear thinking about.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: None.
Original pen-date: 10 January 2010
Summary: On the retreat to Corunna, a cavalryman makes a difficult choice. Spain 1808.
Author's Note: There are probably some historical goofs in here and I beg forgiveness for them.
The Spanish winter was fierce. It froze faces and fingers with cold, stinging eyes and noses with wind, covering everything with snow. On either side of the well-trodden road lay the bodies of men who could bear the cold and strain no longer. Whatever useful kit on them had long since been stripped away by the time Trooper Fletcher saw them. There was no point in dismounting to make any attempts at looting, though some men, more desperate than others, inevitably tried. It was a damned shame to lose men in such a way, he thought. Poor bastards. He shivered and flexed his fingers in an attempt to tighten his grip on the reins. If it was possible, it was colder on the back of a horse than it was on the ground. Fletcher wished he had not taken his heavy gloves off four days back, when he had dismounted during a brief halt to relieve himself. Some worthless beggar had stolen them from his saddle. Now his hands were impossibly cold without any protection from the wind and snow.
In the distance, a bugle blared. The notes echoed flatly in the wintry air and the exhausted, shivering troop showed little sign of having heard it. Only one thought ran universally through the dragoons' minds and that was to keep moving forward. With the French hard on their heels, there was no other direction to go in anyway. Hooves clumped dully over the frozen ground and a red-faced officer in a tattered cloak cantered past, heading for the head of the column. Fletched hunched his shoulders underneath his worn pelisse and tucked his chin down onto his chest. The wind was rising again. It would be another blustery night. They would have to stop soon and rest the horses, but Fletcher knew that to stop would be to lose what little warmth the poor creatures had.
"Check your flints," Sergeant Kingsley called out in a cracking voice. "Wake up, damn you lot. Check your flints."
Fletcher freed his fingers from the reins only with an effort. Check flints. They had skirmished with the French vanguard several times since leaving Madrid, which made it an increasing annoyance to be roused to alarm. The flint of his carbine was good, he found. He reached down and gave his mare an awkward, unsteady pat on the shoulder. A good lass, his horse. She had carried him reliably since Vimeiro, where his previous mount had been killed. That one had been a good horse too, in addition to being the first mount he'd ever had. He pushed that memory away. It didn't bear thinking about. The trumpeter was trying to call 'Form' on his instrument, but the cold metal had stuck to his lips. Sergeant Kingsley was obliged to shout the orders as best he could.
The troop stirred into a trot, however sluggishly, and followed the officer in the tattered cloak. Fletcher did his best not to sigh. He was numb with cold and weariness. Turning back yet another French attack was not something that interested him. There was virtually nothing that did. But he trotted his horse after the man ahead and tried not to think about the lack of feeling in his feet and hands. How far back were they going? The rest of the army was going in the opposite direction. Why they riding away from it? He shook himself. His brain was feeling uncomfortably numb, now.
Shots cracked out, ahead of them. A bugle blared again and Sergeant Kingsley shouted something in his worn out voice. The dragoon ahead of him spurred abruptly into a gallop and, without even comprehending, Fletcher followed suit. Why they were galloping now and what they galloping at... he had no idea. He gripped his carbine and shivered at the rush of wind as he and his horse raced over the rough, rutted ground. It was probably the French cavalry party, or some fast-marching infantry, or maybe it was nothing more than the fantasy of some frightened, half-frozen officer. Either way, the troop were in motion, drawing ever farther away from the army they were tasked with protecting.
His horse caught a hoof in a deep rut and stumbled, breaking her stride. Fletcher did not have time to blink before he was tumbling forward over his horse's head. How had he come so quickly out of the saddle, when it had felt he was frozen to it? The hard-packed dirt rose up to meet him with unforgiving suddeness and he cried out as his elbow struck first. Was it just his terrified imagination, or had that really been a crunch he'd felt in his elbow? It didn't bear thinking about. Then, an instant later, the rest of his body hit the ground and a more complete pain burst to life. His bearskin was gone from his head and he was lying almost upside down just off the road. Pain. Pain and cold. What was that warm feeling on his face?
There was a high-pitched shriek from close by, waking him up from the sleep that he did not remember falling into. How long had he lain here? Fletcher tried to push himself up to his knees, but his right arm buckled uselessly. He had to use his left to support his weight and he was not at all steady when he was at least on his feet. His horse was down, writhing on the frost-crusted earth. Her left fore leg flopped unnaturally. She had broken it on that poxy rut. That was both of them, wasn't it? With a grimace, Fletcher staggered toward her, taking care to stay out of range of her flailing hooves. He had no thought but to comfort the creature. Every other rational thought was gone completely from his head.
"Steady girl," he muttered, patting her neck jerkily. What to do? He had dropped his carbine when he'd been thrown. It was over there somewhere. No point in trying to find it, or even trying to move. His muscles were much too numb and sore for such exertion now. Nothing now but to wait. The rest of his troop should return this way soon. They would retrieve him and bear him away to safety. He could wait. Unless they had passed while he had been unconscious? Fletcher shivered. That did not bear thinking about. He was a dragoon. He could not be a prisoner.
Pistol. The word forced its way into his foggy brain and he fumbled with the straps on his saddlebag. He kept a pistol there. Didn't he? Yes. There it was. With stiff, white fingers, Fletcher drew the pistol out. It was probably still loaded. He hoped it was. The barrel was like ice when he pressed it against his temple. He would not be a prisoner. Never. Not him. If he had the energy for it, the tears would probably be falling. Or maybe they were and he simply could not feel them. It took much more effort than usual to curl his finger around the trigger, or so it seemed to him. But he could not muster that last bit of strength to finish the act. For several long, aching seconds, he held the pistol in his shaking hand, until at last he dropped his hand down to his lap. He did not have the singular will to carry the act through.
Not for himself, at least. His horse was still writhing and was in pain. What sort of dragoon was he to let his loyal mount suffer so? Fletcher sucked in a great breath, filling his lungs with frigid evening air. She had carried him since Vimeiro, through the attack on Madrid and during the ensuing retreat. Why would she have to come to her end here, on a road nobody knew of? It didn't bear thinking about. There was only one thing to think about, if he could not manage to put the ball into his own skull. It wasn't right to make her suffer so and he knew that.
"Steady girl," he repeated and put the muzzle of the pistol against the mare's head. The noise of exploding powder sent shards of icy agony into his brain but his horse was still now, her thrashings ended. Fletcher found that he could not move, except to relax his arm into his lap. That was it. His horse was gone and with her, any hope of escaping the relentlessly pursuing French army. A light snow was falling now and he thought he heard the steady thump of feet in the distance. Was it the French? He had no idea. But it didn't bear thinking about.
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no subject
Date: 2010-01-11 01:52 am (UTC)Beautifully and wonderfully written, as usual. It has a powerful and gripping ending.
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Date: 2010-01-11 02:15 am (UTC)Thanks. ^__^
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Date: 2010-01-11 01:58 am (UTC)Your writing is so painfully real...
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Date: 2010-01-11 02:16 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-11 06:09 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-01-11 04:11 pm (UTC)Cheers! ^_____^