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barefoot_bard) wrote2014-12-22 09:05 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2014-12-22 09:05 pm
Entry tags:
The Road Home
Title: The Road Home
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: All names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: Two soldiers go home at war's end. Suffolk, December 1815.
Author's Note: Any errors contained herein are my own doing.
The sun was making its gradual descent toward the horizon when they finally got within sight of Haughley Green. They'd been days on the road from Devon, walking most of the way when they couldn't wheedle a few miles' ride from a passing mail coach. It might have been an exhausting journey but they'd marched for far longer through much more demanding terrain. Halts for rest or food were as short as they'd been in Spain, the brevity a deeply-ingrained habit that neither had any inclination to break until they were home.
Home. For years it had been only a word, a wonderful dream they'd clung to and conjured up when their spirits were low. Of the two, Albert Penney had always felt the separation from home and hearth more keenly. Leaving a family behind to face an uncertain future would weigh heavily on any man. Daniel Bobbin reckoned Penney a better man than he for that, really. The parting from his own family had been curt and business-like, devoid of any feeling of regret or sorrow. Only Sarah had shown any worry for his leaving but she'd long been the only other reasonable person in the family, after Bobbin himself.
He smiled to himself as he remembered her quietly asking him to look after himself and Penney, but particularly Penney. It'd been hard on her to see both of them go, one a brother and one a husband. She knew them both, though, and rightly reckoned that Penney was more likely to need watching out for. Bobbin had done the job, and done it well. He thought of the crossbelt plate in Penney's trouser pocket and nearly laughed. He'd had plenty of luck to help him out as well. That tarnished brass plate had saved both their lives in turn. Bobbin's first, when it had stopped a musket ball from piercing his chest, and later Penney's, when it deflected another ball away from his thigh. Good thing Bobbin had given the plate to his brother-in-law after it had caught the first musket ball!
There'd be some tall tales told about that plate when Penney showed it to his children. The deep dent that flattened the tail of the two numeral and the shallower furrow across the eight were fodder for any number of heroic stories. Penney had a singular gift for spinning yarns and Bobbin knew he could hold forth for hours when he was of a mind. His storytelling had gotten the lads through many hard days and nights. The smile slid off Bobbin's face as he recalled the days after he'd been wounded and consigned to the surgeon's wagon. Somehow, being bereft of Penney's cheerful yarning had been worse than the ball that had gone through his calf. He'd kept his leg, thank God, and was able to rejoin the company inside a month. That had been at Albuera.
Both he and Penney were wounded at Nivelle, and later at Orthes, Bobbin again took a ball. That was the last time either of them were knocked down in a battle. Fortunately. They'd just had to endure endless hard marching and counter-marching, little food or water, less sleep, and the ever-hospitable Spanish weather. Through it all, Bobbin had done his best by his brother-in-law. Sarah would have wanted nothing less. The fighting at Waterloo had nearly seen him fail to keep his promise, but that was something she need never know. All that mattered was they were both very nearly home now.
In fact, Penney's step was quickening and Bobbin had to lengthen his own stride to keep pace. "A'most 'air, by Gawd."
"Aye, bor. We's gorn-a be 'ome an' off'a 'is rood, a'last," Bobbin agreed cheerfully.
This was the end of any further conversation, both men saving their wind for the brisk, near-running, pace they'd fallen into. Home. It was close enough to touch. The cooperage Penney had left so long ago loomed ahead, opposite the smithy. Light glowed dimly from the window of a little cottage behind it and it was toward this structure that Penney headed. His wife and four children were there, no doubt settling down to the early evening ritual of soup, bread, and cheese. Well, Bobbin silently amended, that would be if they were unusually fortunate. Much had changed in England since they'd been away. Purses had tightened and larders grown thin, according to nearly everyone they'd encountered on their journey from the 28th's depot at Berry Head.
Adjusting to life here would take some time, Bobbin thought with a trace of sadness and another glance at his brother-in-law. There was every chance that Penney's family would not recognise him at first. When he'd gone to the war, he'd been stout and cheerful. Now he was more like a well-weathered tree, not quite whipcord thin but lean and toughened. His once-round face was thin and his eyes seemed to have sunk back slightly into his head. The faintest hint of grey was in his hair as well, though in the gathering twilight this was impossible to see. Bobbin supposed similar changes had been wrought on him as well, but of course he was much more quick to notice them in others.
" 'Ay'll be 'aapy t'see yer," he said to Penney, who was too busy rapping loudly at the cottage's door to pay him any mind. Rightly so, really. Their arrival was ironically well-timed. It was the eve of Christmas. What better gift could be given? Bobbin stayed back a step or two when the door was flung open and a tall, rake-thin young man stood silhouetted in the doorway.
There was long pause as Penney obviously sized the lad up, trying to work out who he was, just as the lad was doing the same for him. It was plain to Bobbin who the lad was, but he held his silence, amused by the mutual lack of recognition from the two Penneys. Then, in a voice that belied his surprise, Penney asked, "Yew gorn-a let yer da inner 'is ern hoome?"
A great commotion erupted, sparked by a sharp cry of stunned relief that could only have come from Sarah. All at once, the cottage emptied itself of people as everyone rushed out to swarm around them. Bobbin smiled, glad that at last his work was finished. He touched Penney briefly on the shoulder and turned to go. He'd done what he'd said he would. He'd made sure his oldest friend, a man whom he loved like a blood brother, had returned home. Now he had to go home himself.
Just before he was pulled bodily into the cottage, Albert Penney turned back to gaze intently into the darkening evening. He thought he saw a faint, very brief, wink of light near the corner of the cooperage. Impulsively, he touched the battered old crossbelt plate in his pocket and called out, "Gawd bless yew, Dan!"
The road home had reached its end.
Rating: K+ (Suitable for ages 13 and above)
Disclaimers: All names given in this story are fictional and any relation to actual persons, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Story summary: Two soldiers go home at war's end. Suffolk, December 1815.
Author's Note: Any errors contained herein are my own doing.
The sun was making its gradual descent toward the horizon when they finally got within sight of Haughley Green. They'd been days on the road from Devon, walking most of the way when they couldn't wheedle a few miles' ride from a passing mail coach. It might have been an exhausting journey but they'd marched for far longer through much more demanding terrain. Halts for rest or food were as short as they'd been in Spain, the brevity a deeply-ingrained habit that neither had any inclination to break until they were home.
Home. For years it had been only a word, a wonderful dream they'd clung to and conjured up when their spirits were low. Of the two, Albert Penney had always felt the separation from home and hearth more keenly. Leaving a family behind to face an uncertain future would weigh heavily on any man. Daniel Bobbin reckoned Penney a better man than he for that, really. The parting from his own family had been curt and business-like, devoid of any feeling of regret or sorrow. Only Sarah had shown any worry for his leaving but she'd long been the only other reasonable person in the family, after Bobbin himself.
He smiled to himself as he remembered her quietly asking him to look after himself and Penney, but particularly Penney. It'd been hard on her to see both of them go, one a brother and one a husband. She knew them both, though, and rightly reckoned that Penney was more likely to need watching out for. Bobbin had done the job, and done it well. He thought of the crossbelt plate in Penney's trouser pocket and nearly laughed. He'd had plenty of luck to help him out as well. That tarnished brass plate had saved both their lives in turn. Bobbin's first, when it had stopped a musket ball from piercing his chest, and later Penney's, when it deflected another ball away from his thigh. Good thing Bobbin had given the plate to his brother-in-law after it had caught the first musket ball!
There'd be some tall tales told about that plate when Penney showed it to his children. The deep dent that flattened the tail of the two numeral and the shallower furrow across the eight were fodder for any number of heroic stories. Penney had a singular gift for spinning yarns and Bobbin knew he could hold forth for hours when he was of a mind. His storytelling had gotten the lads through many hard days and nights. The smile slid off Bobbin's face as he recalled the days after he'd been wounded and consigned to the surgeon's wagon. Somehow, being bereft of Penney's cheerful yarning had been worse than the ball that had gone through his calf. He'd kept his leg, thank God, and was able to rejoin the company inside a month. That had been at Albuera.
Both he and Penney were wounded at Nivelle, and later at Orthes, Bobbin again took a ball. That was the last time either of them were knocked down in a battle. Fortunately. They'd just had to endure endless hard marching and counter-marching, little food or water, less sleep, and the ever-hospitable Spanish weather. Through it all, Bobbin had done his best by his brother-in-law. Sarah would have wanted nothing less. The fighting at Waterloo had nearly seen him fail to keep his promise, but that was something she need never know. All that mattered was they were both very nearly home now.
In fact, Penney's step was quickening and Bobbin had to lengthen his own stride to keep pace. "A'most 'air, by Gawd."
"Aye, bor. We's gorn-a be 'ome an' off'a 'is rood, a'last," Bobbin agreed cheerfully.
This was the end of any further conversation, both men saving their wind for the brisk, near-running, pace they'd fallen into. Home. It was close enough to touch. The cooperage Penney had left so long ago loomed ahead, opposite the smithy. Light glowed dimly from the window of a little cottage behind it and it was toward this structure that Penney headed. His wife and four children were there, no doubt settling down to the early evening ritual of soup, bread, and cheese. Well, Bobbin silently amended, that would be if they were unusually fortunate. Much had changed in England since they'd been away. Purses had tightened and larders grown thin, according to nearly everyone they'd encountered on their journey from the 28th's depot at Berry Head.
Adjusting to life here would take some time, Bobbin thought with a trace of sadness and another glance at his brother-in-law. There was every chance that Penney's family would not recognise him at first. When he'd gone to the war, he'd been stout and cheerful. Now he was more like a well-weathered tree, not quite whipcord thin but lean and toughened. His once-round face was thin and his eyes seemed to have sunk back slightly into his head. The faintest hint of grey was in his hair as well, though in the gathering twilight this was impossible to see. Bobbin supposed similar changes had been wrought on him as well, but of course he was much more quick to notice them in others.
" 'Ay'll be 'aapy t'see yer," he said to Penney, who was too busy rapping loudly at the cottage's door to pay him any mind. Rightly so, really. Their arrival was ironically well-timed. It was the eve of Christmas. What better gift could be given? Bobbin stayed back a step or two when the door was flung open and a tall, rake-thin young man stood silhouetted in the doorway.
There was long pause as Penney obviously sized the lad up, trying to work out who he was, just as the lad was doing the same for him. It was plain to Bobbin who the lad was, but he held his silence, amused by the mutual lack of recognition from the two Penneys. Then, in a voice that belied his surprise, Penney asked, "Yew gorn-a let yer da inner 'is ern hoome?"
A great commotion erupted, sparked by a sharp cry of stunned relief that could only have come from Sarah. All at once, the cottage emptied itself of people as everyone rushed out to swarm around them. Bobbin smiled, glad that at last his work was finished. He touched Penney briefly on the shoulder and turned to go. He'd done what he'd said he would. He'd made sure his oldest friend, a man whom he loved like a blood brother, had returned home. Now he had to go home himself.
Just before he was pulled bodily into the cottage, Albert Penney turned back to gaze intently into the darkening evening. He thought he saw a faint, very brief, wink of light near the corner of the cooperage. Impulsively, he touched the battered old crossbelt plate in his pocket and called out, "Gawd bless yew, Dan!"
The road home had reached its end.