The Spanish Bride

He took a deep long breath. Like he had done on many a battlefield, especially when he thought it would be his last. But this time, there was no smoke burning the eyes. No inhaling blood-stench that would make a predator frenzy from the headiness of it all. No thunderclaps that burst hope, morale and men. This time, a gentle breeze came for the coast of Lisbon; brushing his epaulets, skin and hair. This time, the aroma of perfume, alcohol and the many scents of the sea. This time, the faint sounds of cheers that heralded more wine, sex or simply satisfaction at a job well done.

He smiled that sheepish half smile she loved so much. So this was peace. This was what the last five years of his hopefully now long life had bought. The smile turned brittle as the insidious flicker of the cost slid painfully across his mind. The butchers bill that life demanded for moments such as these.

The smile dissolved as he heard the door to his billet open. The empty spot on his hip he had unknowingly reached for brought him round. His sabre was on the bed. He relaxed his body, as he had also tensed, ready for the sound of French to shatter his serenity. 

Instead, Spanish wafted through the house. 

“Mi amor?” The question hung pregnant with tension for only a moment before he replied. 

“Just me dear, you can put that Navaja away” His gentle Scottish accent made the Spanish feel unnatural and whilst his vocabulary was good, his accent left a lot to be desired.

Several distinct clicks were made the Navaja knife clicking back away as he made his way from the balcony, followed by footsteps coming up the stairs. His eyes of ice caught her eyes of jade green as she folded her Navaja knife with one final click. She smiled as she met his eyes. 

She then gracefully slid into his arms, the Navaja clattering against the sabre scabbard on the bed with an impressive sleight of hand, before her olive skinned hand stroked the scar on his pale face. They admired each other grinning like naughty children. 

She suddenly frowned and picked a raven black hair from his scarlet collar.

“Who is it then?” she accused in her accented English.

“What? Are you-”

“I bet it was that whore Teresa !” she stepped back postulating with the hair she still held in her hand 

“She’s always had eyes for you!”

“Darling, I-” He stammered, faltering before this sudden onslaught, like an expert fencer she darted back into his reach and kissed him passionately.

“You are too easy, mi amor” switching to Spanish as her eyes glistened with amusement as she tenderly put her finger on his lips.

He made a muffled sound with her finger on his lip. She then sighed, rolled her eyes, then removed her finger.

“This is the longest I’ve seen your hair, Paloma” he intoned softly.

Her playfulness fled quickly as she appraised her hair with her hand. 

“This is the longest it has been since the war” she said, hesitant to say more. She never liked talking about pre-war, it made her melancholic, which was the antithesis to her being. 

“It used to go to my hips” as she gently pulled her shoulder length hair straight. Her eyes darkened as she remembered, before suddenly lighting up, and grabbing his hair.

“Ah Pal-” he attempted to pull back to her attempting to snatch his hair, but she was quick as a fencer.

“I could say the same to you, Mr. Chisholm” his light brown hair had grown to his ears, which she still was pulling.

“What would happen if a toad Grenadier grabbed those locks,Mi amor?” she let go of her lover's hair. Then wiped her hand on his uniform, whilst making a face in mock disgust, before winking at him.

“The idea is they wouldn’t get that close, and I’d have my sabre between me and him” he argued.

“They’ll use any advantage mi caballero, get your useless servant to cut it before you end up like I found you” She smiled hoping the use of her pet name for him would get a reaction but seeing his face darken, she softened.

“Sorry my love, that was careless of me” she said as he stepped back.

“You don’t have a servant” She attempted to inject joviality back into the atmosphere, with the playful jibe but the damage was done.

“No dear, I just…” he absently ran his finger down the scar that ran up his face.

she took his hand and put her head on his and for a few moments they remembered how they met.

***

“Yer shakin’ like a shittin’ dog Ensign!” the merry west country accent did nothing to ease the pain of the barber surgeons ministrations.

“Damn… Your… Eyes…” the Ensign managed to bite out through gritted teeth. 

The Barber-Surgeon smiled with rotten and missing teeth, alcohol sodden breath wafting lazily to land on the lieutenant, to add another layer of misery on his fortunes. 

“Don’t worry sir” he belched.

“If you live through the night, you’ll live” he said putting the last fresh stitch into his face.

“Bloody… Hell…” the Ensign exhaled gently before his eyes started to close. A brisk smack shot him to wake.

“No sleeping sir! You migh’ ne’er wake up. Senoreet’ah grab uh’ pail o’ water for the young gentlemen here. Make sure ee stays awake”. Gesturing to a figure in rags on the Ensign’s proferial vision. He pointed to a bucket of water, then to the Ensign. He then thudded a bottle down next to the officer.

“In case the pain gets too much lad” He said to his patient with surprising sincerity. Groans, moans and an agonising scream were the surrounding orchestra that played for the scared, shivering 16 year old Ensign, in agony. The Surgeon left to deal with the agonising scream, leaving his patient to do as a soldier does, fight for his life.

His eyes began to roll, trying to retreat his conscious before it was overrun with horror and pain. But a gentle hand touched his face, then a cold wetness so profound, he nearly sat bolt up right. As he looked around for the culprit of his denied unconsciousness, he met with eyes he wished he would never have to look away from. As the fever tried to drag him back down and the shivering intensified, his vision blurred and he began to tense his body, he saw the angel smile. 

“You’ve come to take me… Lord” he whispered delirium holding his mind, despite the wracking agony, he brought upon himself by speaking. He reached into his uniform pocket and pulled out a locket and spoke softly with such emotional suffering it made the girl take his hand to show he was not alone.

“I’m sorry Amelia, I’m sorry Ma, I’m sorry Da, I let you down” Tears mixing with the sweat and blood already dripping from paper white skin.

Seeing the soldier begin to weep gently with terror in his eyes, she squeezed his hand and whispered gently in Spanish that he will be ok, the lord will look after his soul if he passes. Then like a shot the soldier grabbed her arm and forced the locket he was holding into her free hand.

“If I should die dear angel, return this to Amelia, I was not worthy to carry it. Tell her I died a soldier and to marry better than this failed warrior” His gaze was unflinching, his clarity of word startling clear. Just as quickly as he had grabbed for her, he had lain back, teeth chattering, this time squeezing her hand. The fresh resolve of a soldier destined to die had replaced the weeping scared child that inhabited the blood-stained cot just moments ago.

The girl was also weeping. She had been told her last living relative, her brother, had finally passed after being hit by a French cannonball during the battle only the day before. Seeing the determination on this soldier’s face had reminded her of dear Tomas. The soldier was gently singing to himself to keep himself awake, she smiled sadly, pulled her chair closer to the cot to listen and to remember him. She cried openly now but the soldier seemed intent on trying to sing through chattering teeth as he went to God’s side, she lay on his chest, a surprising show of tenderness from a stranger, gone unnoticed. Neither let go, of hope, of life, of each other’s hand that entire night.

***

“You have always had a beautiful voice mi caballero” she said putting her head on his chest and her arms around him as they came back to the moment.

“You were always a terrible liar, Darling” he caressed the once grieving girl taking heart from her warmth. Kissing her head he went on:

“That was five years ago… bloody hell…” he said the last words into her head, staring at the wall, kissing it again.

A long moment passed before Paloma moved her head back to meet his eyes and broke the silence.

“It only took you a year to kiss me, Linus!” she chided him before she smiled that deep, mirthful smile of knowing she always wore when she teased him.

“You’re lucky it was only a year. If we hadn’t decided to fight the French at Buçaco, I don’t think the romantic forest setting alone would have given me the courage” She made a mock gasp.

“I’m the lucky one, Mr Chisholm?!” If he hadn’t known her intimately for as long as he had, he would have thought the offence in her tone real.

“I could have any of the officers at your army camp! You’re the one who is lucky” She pouted like a school child. He smiled at that.

“That’s true enough” She hit him in the chest. 

“Ow, that hurt more than the sabre cut at Fuentes de Oñoro!”

“Don’t think of yourself that way Linus” She was now stern and deathly serious. 

“You are a charming man and I am lucky” She softened as she was speaking but in Linus’ deepest thoughts it still wasn’t convincing. Whilst she was not the richest, most useful or most conventionally attractive woman in the camp, she was still pretty compared to his just about average, the scar making the rating better or worse depending on who you were talking to. She was outgoing and confident, he was meek and mild yet here they were. As battlefield miracles go, she was his favourite.

“Anyway, who is the liar now? You cried like a baby when I stitched that sabre cut up”

“Upon my soul woman, I cried more after buying a new jacket after you botched stitching that”

“See” She smiled her smile of knowing putting her hand on his chest.

“You are learning how to play this game” she kissed him as he put his hands on her hips, pulling her closer, the heaviness of the atmosphere smothering them both.

“Not yet” she whispered as her hands fell on his, slightly pulling away.

“I want nothing more, mi amor” 

“You said the same after Salamanca” Linus said grinning like the village fool. But it quickly faded into a small dread as he saw the usually upbeat and outspoken Paloma de Santigo de Compestella, look away from him and stare at the ground. She then slowly turned back to look Linus in the eyes, they were now wet with tears and said the words she had told him, solemnly, she would not say, that night of all nights.  

“Why do you have to go?” His heart sank, his belly filled with ice. He struggled to look at her, but he stood his ground as he had done at all the battles in this long war.

“You know I…”

“No. I don’t” she was suddenly on him like a bayonet charge. She began rattling of words like a musket volley, even coming away from their embrace to spit metaphorical lead in his direction.

“We shared our lives for five years. FIVE YEARS tú bastardo. I followed your army, I followed you and you just leave?”

“I don’t deci-”

“I gave you a daughter Gracias a dios! What do I tell Ava, huh? I held her everyday after she was born and you were fighting, weeping with her because I did not know if Papi would come back to us! Even at two, she knows that you’re leaving, I couldn’t stop her crying when I dropped her off to Padre Juan, yet the good Padre managed to calm her so I could come here!” With that last word, the tears were back, the volley was over, yet the attack still came just slow and without hope.

“You can’t marry me because of that Puta back in England”

“Paloma you know the dowry has been paid my father got the las-”

“You thief!” she wailed the words, the last blow in her outburst causing her to fall into his arms weeping openly as she had done only a handful of times in front of him.

“You come to fight the French yet you steal my heart and run like all soldiers do!” she started hitting him feebly, hitting his chest like the bell calling for prayer, slow and methodical.

After a long while of crying, swaying and the patient waiting of a man who could not speak for the lump in his throat; and the woman heartbroken, weeping for what should have been - he spoke.

“I’m going back because the King commands and I obey” his voice was brittle, exhausted from holding his emotions in check, like he had to when leading his men.

“When I am back” her whimpering and sniveling showed the worst was over.

“I will sort out my arranged marriage to Amelia. The money we looted at Vitoria will keep you and Ava until I return. With my share I should be able to pay back the dowry to her father. I should get my Captaincy when we return as the Major had promised.  Since Captain Fitzgerald didn’t survive his wounds taken at Toulouse” He then lifted her face to meet his, using his thumb to wipe what tears were left clean away, like clearing corpses of a battle.

“Then I will come back for you, my Spanish lady and our princess” She smiled at that, before he kissed her lightly.

“I’ll sell my commission if I ha-” She kissed him so ferociously and so suddenly, he had to take a step back to steady himself. 

She pulled back in their parry and riposte of tongues to simply say:

“I love you mi caballero”

“I love you too darling” he whispered, stopping just short of weeping, for his heart ached for what he had to do. 

They spent their night doing what they had done before every battle they had faced together.  Knowing that this was to be the hardest battle, the bitterest campaign, the longest war.

The sun was bright on the dock that morning. The parade had ended and the endless scarlet coats marched, man by man; company by company, on to their transports. The ship ebbed to and fro, its white sail being unfurled.

Crowds of people lined the dock. Cheering, crying, yelling filled the air as easy as any shot or shell, and as the Lieutenant looked around at the blue sky, at his men tears lining their faces. Was it as his, grief at leaving this behind for dreary Britain? Or was it relief that they were finally away from this hell that had taken so many of them into its soil. He watched his men march on the transport, as his duty was to do. 

He then looked into the crowd, who were still letting God receive their exaltation. Or grief. Or their good riddance to the heretics who had unceremoniously helped save their country. 

Standing at his post he scanned the crowd like a battlefield. Trying to pick out the one thing that would be the key to living. He saw them both at the front, the moment they had seen him. His Spanish Lady and their princess. The five years of battle, disease, heat and even the wound he took at Talavera so many years ago had not made him break ranks like he did right now. He ran as if the Emperor’s Lancers were on his tail. He ran up the dock steps, barged past the thin line of Provost marshals keeping the crowd back. They saw his epaulets and let him be, wading into the suffocating mass.

He ran right into her arms and kissed her for the last time. Before he kissed his daughter.

“When I return” He shouted over the crowd

“You will be Mrs. Chisholm, I love you!”

“I love you too, now go before they court martial you!” she smiled that knowing smile that broke his heart anew and looked into the jade eyes he fell in love with and turned to batter his way back through the crowd and the ship that awaited.

“Sir?” His Sergeant, witnessing the whole thing, asked.

“Saying farewell and adieu to my Spanish Lady” Lieutenant Linus Chisholm said with a confident tone, he didn’t feel.

“Ah” the Sergeant smiled “It won’t be the last time. I told mine that, sir” both sharing in the secret that they both might have lied to their respective.

Neither man spoke another word as they boarded their transport, neither mentioning the tears that were freely flowing for their Spanish brides left behind.