drink rosewater?”
“I’ve never been quite that foxed, no.”
“D’yer drink whiskey before?”
“Yes.”
“Rye?”
“Yes.”
“Gin?”
“Yes.” He could do this all day.
“Brandy?”
“Yes.”
“Blood?”
“Once or twice.”
“Cor!” The boy gave a thrilled leap straight up and then frisked sideways. Chase gave him a blackly quelling look and the frisking stopped and the urchin ran to catch up. “Blood!”
“Inadvertently, mind you,” Chase said sternly.
“In a vertinly? A vertinly is a tankard, like?”
“‘Inadvertently.’ It’s a word that means ‘not at all on purpose.’ It was just that after the battle of Waterloo the whole of the battlefield was covered with soldiers dead and dying, and the canteens of water were nearly all empty, and all the dead and wounded soldiers lay over the field for hours, for nearly a day, with nothing to drink or eat. There was many a soldier would have fought that battle all over again for one sip of water, whether or not blood was in it. So, yes: I wanted to live. And the water I found in a well tasted of blood, and more than one of us drank of it.”
The urchin was all palpable, speechless awe.
It occurred to Chase that this was the first time he’d recited this part of his story in detail to…anyone. He began to understand why his father and his uncles enjoyed telling stories to their boys: in making a legend, one could gild horror. So they could be reminded more of the courage than the carnage at times when the cost seemed too high. And he could remind himself of a time when he felt essential.
“Ye were lamed at Waterloo?”
“You could say that.”
“Can I see it? Your leg?”
“No.”
“Wot ’appened?”
Chase recited without missing a stride. “I woke with a great weight upon me, and I couldn’t see at all; ’twas black before my eyes. I thought I was blind. I could hear moans and screams all around me, cries and words from men in English and French. I wiped at my eyes and discovered I wasn’t blind: my eyes were just filled with blood from a wound to my scalp. I’d been shot here.” He pushed up his hat and his hair and pointed to the white scar as he walked. The boy squinted in fascination up at him, and hopped twice to get a closer look. “They didna get yer brains?”
“No, they did not get my brains. Just my scalp, and the scalp bleeds rather a lot when it’s nicked, just so you know in case you ever sustain a wound to the head.” The boy put his own hand up to his forehead, as if to test the structural integrity of his own scalp. “I wiped the blood from my eyes with my hands so I could see, and I discovered the weight was the body of a French soldier. He was dead, laying right atop me, and his eyes stared right into mine.”
He spoke to the boy as if he were a man, which is what boys preferred, he knew. He preferred it, too: unadulterated truth. He wasn’t the only one to wake to pain beneath a dead man on that day. He wasn’t the heroic Colonel Eversea in that moment. Just another English body battered in its duty to its country. This boy stopped in his tracks, momentarily paralyzed by the gory glory of it all.
Chase took the opportunity to accelerate his pace. The boy, bloody hell, ran to catch up.
“D’yer kill ’im?” he said breathlessly. “The frog atop ye?”
“I must have done. It was my job to kill French soldiers before they killed us.”
“I would ’ave killed ’undreds!” Urchin leaped and pointed an invisible musket at a passerby. “Boom!” The passerby jumped and scowled at the boy, one hand over his heart. The boy grinned. The man shot by the phantom musket sent a commiseration-seeking look toward Chase. Who ignored it, as he was in need of commiseration himself.
“Ah, but it was not so easy. French soldiers were very good fighters, and we took no pleasure in the killing, but we did take pleasure in doing our jobs for our country. When the fighting was done, the hospital
“I’ve never been quite that foxed, no.”
“D’yer drink whiskey before?”
“Yes.”
“Rye?”
“Yes.”
“Gin?”
“Yes.” He could do this all day.
“Brandy?”
“Yes.”
“Blood?”
“Once or twice.”
“Cor!” The boy gave a thrilled leap straight up and then frisked sideways. Chase gave him a blackly quelling look and the frisking stopped and the urchin ran to catch up. “Blood!”
“Inadvertently, mind you,” Chase said sternly.
“In a vertinly? A vertinly is a tankard, like?”
“‘Inadvertently.’ It’s a word that means ‘not at all on purpose.’ It was just that after the battle of Waterloo the whole of the battlefield was covered with soldiers dead and dying, and the canteens of water were nearly all empty, and all the dead and wounded soldiers lay over the field for hours, for nearly a day, with nothing to drink or eat. There was many a soldier would have fought that battle all over again for one sip of water, whether or not blood was in it. So, yes: I wanted to live. And the water I found in a well tasted of blood, and more than one of us drank of it.”
The urchin was all palpable, speechless awe.
It occurred to Chase that this was the first time he’d recited this part of his story in detail to…anyone. He began to understand why his father and his uncles enjoyed telling stories to their boys: in making a legend, one could gild horror. So they could be reminded more of the courage than the carnage at times when the cost seemed too high. And he could remind himself of a time when he felt essential.
“Ye were lamed at Waterloo?”
“You could say that.”
“Can I see it? Your leg?”
“No.”
“Wot ’appened?”
Chase recited without missing a stride. “I woke with a great weight upon me, and I couldn’t see at all; ’twas black before my eyes. I thought I was blind. I could hear moans and screams all around me, cries and words from men in English and French. I wiped at my eyes and discovered I wasn’t blind: my eyes were just filled with blood from a wound to my scalp. I’d been shot here.” He pushed up his hat and his hair and pointed to the white scar as he walked. The boy squinted in fascination up at him, and hopped twice to get a closer look. “They didna get yer brains?”
“No, they did not get my brains. Just my scalp, and the scalp bleeds rather a lot when it’s nicked, just so you know in case you ever sustain a wound to the head.” The boy put his own hand up to his forehead, as if to test the structural integrity of his own scalp. “I wiped the blood from my eyes with my hands so I could see, and I discovered the weight was the body of a French soldier. He was dead, laying right atop me, and his eyes stared right into mine.”
He spoke to the boy as if he were a man, which is what boys preferred, he knew. He preferred it, too: unadulterated truth. He wasn’t the only one to wake to pain beneath a dead man on that day. He wasn’t the heroic Colonel Eversea in that moment. Just another English body battered in its duty to its country. This boy stopped in his tracks, momentarily paralyzed by the gory glory of it all.
Chase took the opportunity to accelerate his pace. The boy, bloody hell, ran to catch up.
“D’yer kill ’im?” he said breathlessly. “The frog atop ye?”
“I must have done. It was my job to kill French soldiers before they killed us.”
“I would ’ave killed ’undreds!” Urchin leaped and pointed an invisible musket at a passerby. “Boom!” The passerby jumped and scowled at the boy, one hand over his heart. The boy grinned. The man shot by the phantom musket sent a commiseration-seeking look toward Chase. Who ignored it, as he was in need of commiseration himself.
“Ah, but it was not so easy. French soldiers were very good fighters, and we took no pleasure in the killing, but we did take pleasure in doing our jobs for our country. When the fighting was done, the hospital
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