A Glimpse to the Future

Chapter One

He always seemed awaken most violently in the predawn, just as the sky began to show the palest hint of light. Another day was struggling to start, and Colour Serjeant John Bates jostled himself awake from another hazy, drink-sodden sleep and wondered where he was.

It took a few moments before he remembered that he was in the new Shrapnel Barracks, in a room adjacent to the recruits' quarters, where he often passed out on those nights he couldn't bear to be at home, near his wife, or near any number of women passing through Woolwich who pursued him. These were women who saw the chevrons and crown on his uniform and assumed they'd found a man with cash to spend on them. Even when they ended up paying for a round or four of drinks, they still pursued him, attracted by his dark looks and low voice they mistook for passion. He had none of that, not for months, maybe years now but he was willing to play the role if only to remind himself that he wasn't dead—yet.

What had he been dreaming? He wasn't sure and didn't want to search his memory. Right now, he had to concentrate on relieving his aching head and leg and prepare for yet another command performance of a responsible Colour Serjeant. Today's performance was an important one and he had to look and feel the part.

That was about the last thing that could rouse him to try to meet the high standards of behaviour that he'd held himself to before the war and in its early days. Or more accurately, before he was wounded and left in pain that could get so unbearable he wished he was dead. And when he wasn't so distracted by the pain, he was achingly aware of his lopsided gait that kept him tied to the Army and the boring desk job that didn't require the physical labor he had been used to. His job was given out of pity and he hated himself for accepting it. But he knew that outside the Army, no one would hire him, a crippled man approaching middle age with a drink problem to boot.

The prospect of seeing his old commander, Viscount Crawley, made him want to be a man again. Maybe the Viscount could conjure up a job for him at his York estate, away from London, away from his wife whose eyes revealed her disappointment and whose tongue her scorn, and the younger soldiers who pitied him and didn't think the next war to come along could possibly ruin their bodies and souls as his had been. Maybe his old commander wouldn't pity him but remember the man he'd been when he served as his batman and bodyguard. When he took a Boer bullet meant for the officer.

Bates hoped the early dawn would spare him from being seen. He knew he looked like a wreck after last night. He tried to pull himself together, washing his face and matting down his hair, rinsing his mouth and trying to smooth the uniform he'd slept in. He didn't have a razor with him and knew he needed a shave. He reached inside a pocket, pulled out a small flask and took a sip.

He lumbered outside and after standing for a few moments in the growing light, felt like he could walk almost normally. Another sip of whiskey soothed the pain in his leg and head and he started to feel what passed for normal these days. He nodded at the guards as he limped through a back entrance and out of the barracks. "Poor old fellow," he heard one of them say.

He was heading for home in Abbey Wood, for a bath and change of clothes, maybe a bit of breakfast if Vera was in a good mood. She should be, he thought to himself. He'd stayed out of her way for several days, sparing her the sight of a husband she still relied on for money and an occasional physical release that only drove them further apart.

He arrived at a three-story building and climbed the stairs to the top floor rooms they shared. He was in luck. Vera wasn't home—she must have stayed out for the night, bedding down with a new friend or old one, who knew. Sighing with relief, he started the kitchen fireplace and went back down the stairs to fill a few buckets with water from the tap outside the house. He'd built a pulley outside that would hoist the buckets up to the kitchen window, sparing them and the second-floor tenants from having to lug water up to their flats. He had been quite proud of that, thinking it a clever and handy convenience—only to overhear Vera tell the landlady that her husband could barely make it up the stairs and would slosh water all over the place. Was it all right for them to use the contraption he'd put together?

He climbed back up the stairs, hoisted the buckets through the window, and set them to heat over the fire. While the water warmed, he made himself a light breakfast of cake and apples that Vera had left behind. He found an open bottle of beer in the sink and finished it, tossing the bottle back into the sink. The water now heated, he poured it into the metal tub he dragged out from the bedroom, gathered some soap, a razor and flannel, stripped off his clothes, and lowered himself in. He quickly but thoroughly washed himself—he didn't want to chance Vera walking in on him in such a vulnerable state. He dried himself off, wrapped the flannel around his waist, and filled a small bowl with water so he could shave in the bedroom, taking advantage of Vera's small but pretty mirrored dressing table.

He sat at Vera's table, looking at himself in the mirror. He lathered his face with soap and slowly, carefully, scraped the razor against his face, rinsed it, and moved on to the rest of his face. He was so pale, he thought. Must try to get out in the sun more often. Finished with shaving, he picked up one of Vera's brushes and ran it over his scalp. He was glad he'd let his hair grow in a bit. He wasn't anywhere near violating Army standards, but that extra layer of hair was enough to cover the scar on the back of his head where he'd fallen and hit a rock after some bloke shoved him during an argument outside a pub they'd been thrown out of. He somehow scrambled to his feet and returned the favour, tackling the man and swinging his fists into his sides until a couple of corporals who recognized him dragged him off and back to the barracks.

He stood and opened the wardrobe, searching for his dress uniform or at least a clean standard issue. Luck struck a second time—his dress uniform hung in the very far corner, over his best shoes. They were both clean, almost a miracle. He couldn't remember when he last wore them—perhaps during last year's inspection by the Prince of Wales? He slipped on clean undergarments and pulled on the uniform pants, pleased that it buttoned easily. He tried on the coat, which still fit him pretty well. He could look the part; the question was, could he still play it for his old commander?

Bates stood in the foyer of the Retired Officer's Club in Mayfair awaiting Viscount Crawley. It had been about three years since he'd last seen Crawley, who came to London for the social season and for business at other times. Crawley had written to him several times, asking if they could meet. But Bates always had excuses to avoid such a meeting, ashamed at how he'd failed to progress up the ranks after the war and his stupid job filing endless documents. He hated how such a job was his lifeline.

It was time to change all this. This time he was going to ask Crawley for a job at Downton Abbey, the family estate. He'd never been there but had heard from others that it was a grand house, one of the best in York, and had a reputation for being a good place to work. The house itself, Crawley had told him, had been one of the largest monasteries in York until the Reformation, when Henry VIII sent his army to ransack properties claimed by the Roman Church. The grandfather of the first Earl was rewarded with the property in return for his zealous search and ransacking of Roman treasures, bringing several hundreds of thousands of pounds to Henry's diminished treasury. His grandson, equally zealous in embracing the reformed religion, was made Earl by Queen Elizabeth after financing the better part of Sir Walter Raleigh's expeditions to the New World. And so the title was handed down from father to son for the next several hundred years. If memory was correct, though, Crawley only had daughters and one widowed sister without children; Bates supposed the next heir would be a cousin.

Bates heard his name shouted from across the expansive room off the foyer and turned to see the Viscount bounding toward him. He, too, was in dress uniform. Bates felt his face break into a grin as soon as he saw him; the man was irresistibly charming and completely at ease with himself. "Serjeant Bates my dear fellow!" he exclaimed, grabbing Bates' arm and pumping it up and down before wrapping him in a bear hug. Bates felt his grin get even wider. "Sir, it's a real pleasure to see you again," he replied after breaking away from the hug and gave him the first real smile he'd felt in weeks.

"Come let's sit for a few minutes before luncheon," the Viscount said, leading Bates by the arm to a corner in the room where armchairs were arranged in front of a fire. "Take a seat," he said, motioning to the chair closest to the fire and sitting in the one to the left. Bates, thrown off by being led and trying to keep his balance, was careful to wait until the Viscount was seated. Only then did he sit, grateful that his aching leg would be closest to the fire. He worried if the Viscount had noticed his pained stance. Crawley looked at him, smiling, but asked in a serious voice, "Tell me what's gone on with you."

"I was worried that things weren't going well," the Viscount said. "I suspected that you and your wife weren't getting along. It can be difficult for outsiders, especially women, to understand what we've been through in Africa, and with an injury like yours…I can only imagine how hard it's been on you."

Bates had brought the Viscount up to date on his situation, leaving out the details of his drinking and the extent of his physical pain, but being frank about the state of his marriage and his frustration with his job. "So I was hoping, sir, if a position were to open at Downton Abbey, if you'd consider giving me a trial," he ventured. "I'm not as crippled as I look. I manage getting around very well. I've served as a batman to visiting officers at Shrapnel so I still have valet skills, and you know I can keep spending accounts and inventory. I can do most anything to help run a house."

The Viscount listened carefully. Bates had been an exceptional and decorated soldier, but he couldn't help thinking about all the stairs in Downton. How in the world would Bates manage them? It was a huge house and the stairs seemed endless to some visitors. There were even more of them in the areas where the servants worked and slept. Wilson, his valet, sometimes joked that people couldn't possibly get fat working at Downton, even with the excellent cooks there. His own parents were starting to get weary with the stairs and seemed to take longer to ascend them with each passing week. Could a man with a permanent injury possibly handle such a house?

It was a pity, he thought, because a healthy Bates could have done just about anything at an estate like his. The man had been an excellent shot—what a pleasure it would have been if he could work hunting parties but his obvious unsteadiness would be a problem. And forget putting him on a horse. He wondered for a moment if Bates' fondness for whiskey was partly to blame for the unsteadiness he'd noticed when he led him in from the foyer. He knew that Bates drank quite a bit during the war but he couldn't honestly say he'd ever seen him drunk.

Back then, even his thrice-daily shots of whiskey didn't seem to impact Bates a bit. He had in fact just seen him take a slug from a canister when the shots rang out that day. Bates reacted quickly. He pushed Captain Crawley to the ground, where two other soldiers jumped in to cover him. Crawley turned his head to see Bates reached over his shoulder, whip out his rifle, aim in one direction and fire twice. Crawley heard a scream and saw a man fall out of a tree about 30 meters away. Bates spun around, aimed in another direction, and fired again. This time, they could hear the thud as another body hit the ground.

By then, the rest of the battalion had caught up and were forming a circle around them, rifles raised and firing in the directions where Bates had fired. Bates reloaded his rifle and rose to join the circle just as a round of bullets whizzed into the men in front of him. The next thing Crawley knew, Serjeant Bates was screaming and clutching his leg before passing out on the men who had fallen moments earlier. It was awful, and it was hours until the shooting stopped and the medical corps could come in to collect the bodies and move the survivors to a field hospital.

"Poor bastard," Crawley remembered hearing one medic say over Bates' inert body. "That leg's coming off if he lives to make it back. Mind the blood, it's slippery, don't fall getting' him on the stretcher." He felt sick.

"Sir?" Bates was saying. Crawley looked up. "Sorry Bates," Crawley said. "I was just thinking about the layout of the house. It's quite a big place and...well, it has several floors and a lot, and I mean a lot, of stairs. I just don't know how you could manage working there. And I do have a valet who I imagine would stay on once I inherit my title…in fact, I don't foresee anyone really leaving except for footmen...that would be beneath you..." His voice trailed off as he caught Bates' eye and saw the disappointment in the man's face.

"Enough of this for now," Crawley said. "Let's go in. I'm hungry and I'm told that the NCO luncheons have the best food."